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ION; 

A TRAGEDY, 

IN FIVE ACTS. 



LONDON : 

PRINTED BY A. J. VALrY, 
RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET. 

FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION, 

jM fuolisfjctr. 






JULY 26» 1«<** 



TO 



THE REV. RICHARD VALPY, D. D., 



THIS ATTEMPT AT DRAMATIC COMPOSITION, 



AS A SLENDER TOKEN OF GRATITUDE, 



FOR BENEFITS WHICH CANNOT BE EXPRESSED IN WORDS, 



IS MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 



HIS AFFECTIONATE PUPIL, 



T. N. TALFOURD. 



PREFACE. 



" I left no calling for this idle trade, 
No duty broke." Pope. 

The title of this Drama is borrowed from the Tragedy of 
Euripides, which gave the first hint of the situation in which its 
hero is introduced — that of a foundling youth educated in a 
temple, and assisting in its services ; but otherwise there is no 
resemblance between this imperfect sketch and that exquisite 
picture. It has been written, — not indeed without a view to 
an ideal stage, which should never be absent from the mind of 
the humblest aspirant to dramatic composition, but without 
any hope of rendering it worthy to be acted. If it were 
regarded as a drama composed for actual representation, I am 
well aware that not in " matter of form " only, but in " matter 
of substance," it would be found wanting. The idea of the 
principal character, — that of a nature essentially pure and 
disinterested, deriving its strength entirely from goodness and 



Vlll PREFACE. 

thought, not overcoming evil by the force of will, but escaping 
it by an insensibility to its approach — vividly conscious of 
existence and its pleasures, yet willing to lay them down at the 
call of duty, — is scarcely capable of being rendered sufficiently 
striking in itself, or of being subjected to such agitations, as 
tragedy requires in its heroes. It was farther necessary, in 
order to involve such a character in circumstances which might 
excite terror, or grief, or joy, to introduce other machinery 
than that of passions working naturally within, or events 
arising from ordinary and probable motives without ; as its 
own elements would not supply the contests of tragic emotion, 
nor would its sufferings, however accumulated, present a varied 
or impressive picture. Recourse has therefore been had, not 
only to the old Grecian notion of Destiny, apart from all moral 
agencies, and to a prophecy indicating its purport in reference 
to the individuals involved in its chain, but to the idea of 
fascination, as an engine by which Fate may work its pur- 
poses on the innocent mind, and force it into terrible action, 
most uncongenial to itself, but necessary to the issue. Either 
perhaps of these aids might have been permitted, if used in 
accordance with the entire spirit of the piece ; but the employ- 
ment of both could not be justified in a drama intended for 
visual presentation, in which a certain verisimilitude is essential 
to the faith of the spectator. Whether any groups surrounded 
with the associations of the Greek mythology, and subjected to 
the capricious laws of Greek superstition, could be endowed by 



PREFACE. 



genius itself with such present life as to awaken the sympathies 
of an English audience, may well be doubted ; but it cannot 
be questioned that except by sustaining a stern unity of pur- 
pose, and breathing an atmosphere of Grecian sentiment over 
the whole, so as to render the picture national and coherent in 
all its traits, the effect must be unsatisfactory and unreal. 
Conscious of my inability to produce a work thus justified to 
the imagination by its own completeness and power, I have 
not attempted it ; but have sought, out of mere weakness, for 
" Fate and metaphysical aid " to " crown withal " the 
ordinary persons of a romantic play. I have, therefore, asked 
far too much for a spectator to grant; but the case is different 
with the reader who does not seek the powerful excitements of 
the theatre, nor is bound to a continuous attention ; and who, for 
the sake of scattered sentiments or expressions which may 
please him, may, at least by a latitude of friendly allowance, 
forgive the incongruities of the machinery by which the story 
is conducted. This drama may be described as the phantasm 
of a tragedy, — not a thing of substance mortised into the living 
rock of humanity, — and therefore incapable of exciting that 
interest which grows out of human feeling, or of holding that 
permanent place in the memory, which truth only can retain. 

As this attempt at dramatic composition is not submitted to 
the public, but intended only for the perusal of friends, it may 
not be deemed an intrusion on their indulgence, if I state, on 
my own behalf, the circumstances under which it was written, 



X PREFACE. 

and the motives which induce me, at this time, to seek for it 
that partial circulation to which alone it is fitted. 

There are few perhaps among those who have written for the 
press, predominant as that majority now is over the minority of 
mere readers, who have not, at some season of their lives, 
contemplated the achievement of a tragedy. The narrow and 
well-defined limits by which the action of tragedy is circum- 
scribed—the various affections which may live, and wrestle, 
and suffer within these palpable boundaries— its appeal to the 
sources of grief common to humanity, on the one hand, and to 
the most majestic shapings of the imagination on the other, 
softening and subduing the heart to raise and to ennoble it, — 
and perhaps, more than all, the vivid presentment of the forms 
in which the strengths and weaknesses of our nature are em- 
bodied, its calamities dignified, and its high destiny vindicated, 
even in the mortal struggle by which for a season it is van- 
quished, — may well impress every mind, reaching, however 
feebly, towards the creative, with a fond desire to imitate the 
great masters of its " so potent art/' This desire has a power- 
ful ally in the exuberant spirits of youth, when the mind, 
unchilled by the sad realities of life, searches out for novelty 
in the forms of sorrow, from which it may afterwards rejoice 
to escape, and from which it may turn for relief to the 
flickerings of mirth, and to brief snatches of social pleasure. 
Perhaps " gorgeous Tragedy " left a deeper impression when 
she passed "sweeping by" my intellectual vision, than would 



PREFACE. XI 

have been otherwise received by a mind unapt for so high a 
correspondence, by reason of the accident that the glimpse 
was stolen. Denied by the conscientious scruples of friends 
an early acquaintance with plays, I had derived from Mrs. 
Moore's Sacred Dramas my first sense of that peculiar en- 
joyment which the idea of dramatic action, however im- 
perfectly conveyed, gives ; and stiff and cumbrous as they* now 
seem, I owe to their author that debt of gratitude which many 
perhaps share with me, who have first looked on the world of 
literature through the net-work of most sincere, but exclusive 
opinions. These gave, however, but dim hints of the greatness 
which was behind ; — i looked into the domain of tragedy as 
into a mountain region covered with mist and cloud; — and 
incapable of appreciating the deep humanities of Shakspeare, 
" rested and expatiated" in the brocaded grandeurs of Dryden, 
Rowe, and Addison. To describe the delight with which, for 
the first time, I saw the curtain of Covent Garden Theatre 
raised for the representation of Cato, would be idle, — or how it 
was sustained during the noble performance which followed, 
when the vision of Roman constancy and classic grace which 
had haunted the mind through all its schoolboy years (then 
drawing to a close) seemed bodied forth in palpable form, — 
when the poor common-places of an artificial diction flowed 
"mended from the tongue" of the actor, and the thoughtful 
words trembling on his lips suggested at once the feeling of 
earthly weakness and of immortal hope, — and when the old 



Xll PREFACE. 

Stoic, in his rigid grandeur, was reconciled to the human heart 
by the struggle of paternal love, and became " passion'd as 
ourselves" without losing any portion of that statue-like 
dignity which made him the representative of a world of 
heroic dreamings. 

After this glimpse of the acted drama, I was long haunted 
by the idle wish to write a tragedy, and many hours did I 
happily, but vainly spend in sober contemplations of its theme. 
I tried to wreathe several romantic and impossible stories, 
which I fashioned in my evening walks into acts, and began to 
write a scene ; but however pleased I might be with the outline 
of these fantasies, I was too much disgusted with the alternate 
badness and fustian of the blank verse which I produced in the 
attempt to execute them, to proceed. At this time also, just 
as the laborious avocations of my life were commencing, my 
taste and feeling, as applied to poetry, underwent an entire 
change, consequent on my becoming acquainted with the 
poetry of Wordsworth. That power which, slighted and 
scoffed at as it was then, has since exerted a purifying in- 
fluence on the literature of this country, such as no other 
individual power has ever wrought ; which has not only given 
to the material universe "a speech and a language" before 
unheard, but has opened new sources of enjoyment even in the 
works of the greatest poets of past days, and imparted a new 
sense wherewith to relish them ; — which, while on the one hand 
it has dissipated the sickly fascinations of gaudy phraseology, 



PREFACE. 



has, on the other, cast around the lowliest conditions a new and 
exquisite light, and traced out the links of good by which all 
human things are bound together, and clothed our earthly life 
in the solemnities which belong to its origin and its destiny — 
humbled the pride of my swelling conceits, and taught me to 
look on the mighty works of genius, not with the presumption 
of an imitator, but with the veneration of a child. For the 
early enjoyment of this great blessing, which the sneers of 
popular critics might otherwise have withheld from me for 
years, I am indebted to my friend Mr. Barron Field, now 
filling a judicial situation at Gibraltar, who overcame my 
reluctance to peruse what the Edinburgh Review had so 
triumphantly derided. The love of contemplative poetry thus in- 
spired, led me, in such leisure as I could attain, rather to ponder 
over the sources of the profoundest emotions, or to regard them 
as associated with the majestic forms of the universe, than to 
follow them into their violent conflicts and mournful cata- 
strophes ; and although I never ceased to regard the acted 
drama as the most delightful of recreations, I sought no longer 
to work out a frigid imitation of writers, whom alone I could 
hope to copy, and whose enchantments were dissipated by 
more genial magic. 

But the tragic drama was about to revive among us, and I 
was not insensible to its progress. Although the tragedies of 
the last twelve years are not worthy to be compared with the 
noblest productions of the great age of our drama, they are, 



XIV PREFACE. 

with two or three exceptions r far superior to any which had 
been written in the interval. Since the last skirts of the glory 
of Shakspeare's age disappeared, we shall search in vain for 
serious plays of equal power and beauty with Virginius, 
William Tell, Mirandola, Rienzi, or the Merchant of London, 
— at least if we except Venice Preserved for the admirable 
conduct of its story, and Douglas for that romantic tenderness 
and pathos which have been too little appreciated of late 
years. It happened to me to be intimately acquainted with 
all those who contributed to this impulse ; and to take an imme- 
diate interest in their successes. I also enjoyed the friendship 
of the delightful artist to whom all have by turns been in- 
debted for the realisation of their noblest conceptions, and was 
enabled to enjoy with more exquisite relish the home-born 
affection with which these were endued, and the poetical grace 
breathed around them, by rinding the same influences shed by 
Mr. Macready over the sphere of his social and domestic 
life. It will not be surprising that, to one thus associated, 
the old wish to accomplish something in dramatic shape should 
recur, not accompanied by the hope of sharing in the scenic 
triumphs of his friends, but bounded by the possibility of 
conducting a tale through dialogue to a close, and of making 
it subserve to the expression of some cherished thoughts. In 
this state of feeling, some years ago, the scheme of the drama 
of Ion presented itself to me; and, after brooding over.it for 
some time, I wrote a prose outline of its successive scenes 



PREFACE. XV 

nearly in the order and to the effect in which they are now 
completed, and made some progress in an opening scene of 
which little now remains. The attempt was soon laid aside ; 
for 1 found the composition of dramatic blank verse even 
more difficult now that I had present to me the ease and 
vividness of my friends, than when I had been contented to 
emulate the ponderous lines of the dramatists of Garrick's age. 
Still the idea of my hero recurred to me often : I found my 
pleasantest thoughts gathering about him ; and rather more 
than two years ago I determined to make one essay more. 
Since that time such seasons of leisure as I could find have 
been devoted to the work : but I had so great distrust of my 
ab.ility to complete it, that I did not mention it to any one ; 
and I cannot charge myself with having permitted it to 
interfere with any professional or private duty. It has been 
chiefly written in scraps of time ; composed for the most part 
on journeys, and afterwards committed to paper ; and thus, at 
the close of last year, I found four acts reduced into form. 
At this time, the sudden realisation of another youthful dream 
opened to me the prospect of additional duties, which I knew 
full well ought to preclude the continuance of those secret 
flirtations with the muse in which T had indulged ; and, there- 
fore, I resolved to make an effort, and, by completing my 
drama before those duties should commence, to free myself 
from the bondage of those threads of fantastical interest which 
had woven themselves about my mind. I accordingly wrote 



XVI PREFACE. 

the fifth act with far more rapidity than any of the previous 
passages of my drama ; and, before I was called upon to share 
in more momentous business, I had communicated to a few 
friends the result of my scribblings, and bade adieu to my 
dramatic attempts for ever. 

But it may well be asked, why, with the sense I have of the 
feebleness of this poetical sketch, I have ventured to intrude it on 
my friends ? My chief reason is, that I am anxious to cast from 
my own mind the associations which have hung about it during 
the composition of the piece, and which, while it remained in 
manuscript susceptible of alteration, I could not entirely hope 
for; and, farther, to preclude the charge (if it should ever 
be brought to light hereafter) that it had occupied leisure 
which henceforward must be devoted to other studies. I have 
also a desire to gratify myself by presenting it to my friends, 
especially to those who are removed to a distance ; because, 
although as a drama it is unworthy the attention of the world, 
yet, as containing thoughts which have passed through my own 
mind, it may be acceptable to those whose conversation I can 
no longer enjoy. It would be a sufficient reason to myself for 
printing it, that I shall be able thus to remind Sir Edward 
Ryan, now most honorably to himself and happily for India, 
Chief Justice of Bengal, and his excellent colleague Sir Ben- 
jamin Malkin, of the delightful hours we have spent 
together on the Oxford circuit, when life was younger with us, 
and when some of the topics they will find just touched on in 



PREFACE. XV11 

these verses, were the themes of our graver walks between 
Ross and Monmouth, or in the deep winding valleys indenting 
the Table-Land above Church-Stretton, or haply by moonlight 
in the church-yard of Ross. I take leave to mention these as 
far away; but there are others of my fellow- labourers at home 
whose sympathy and whose conversation has cheered my pro- 
fessional life, who I believe will receive it cordially ; and 
among them I hope my sometime Sessions leader, who has 
committed a similar offence, though with more extenuating 
circumstances, by investing with so much dignity of passion 
and richness of language the story of the Countess of Essex, 
will not disdain it. 

There is yet one other motive which I have in commending 
this work to the classical press of my friend Mr. John 
Valpy, — that I may have the honour of inscribing it to my 
revered master and friend, his father. It is not the first im- 
perfect exercise in English verse to which he has shown favour, 
but it will be the last. Long as I trust he will yet be spared to 
the large circle through which the genial influences of his life 
have been diffused, I shall never again thus intrude upon a 
kindness which nothing can weary. 

T. N. T. 

London, April 15, 1835. 

b 



ION; 



A TRAGEDY. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA 



Adrastus, King of Argos. 

Me don, High Priest of the Temple of Apollo at Argos. 

Crythes, Captain of the Royal Guard. 

Phocion, son of Medon. 

Ctesiphon, "1 

> noble Argive youths. 
Cassander, J 

Ion, a foundling youth protected by Medon. 

Agenor, ") 

Cleon, )> Sages of Argos. 

Timocles, J 

Irus, a boy, slave of Agenor. 

Clemanthe, Medon's daughter. 
Abra, attendant on Clemanthe. 

Scene. — Argos. 

The Time of the Action is comprised in one day and night s 
and the following morning. 



ACT THE FIRST. 



A 



ION; 



TRAGEDY. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

The Interior of the Temple of Apollo, which is 
supposed to be placed on a rocky eminence. Early 
morning. The interior lighted by a single lamp stis- 
pended from the roof. Agenor resting against a 
column ; — IRUS seated on a bench at the side of the 
scene. 

Agenor comes forward and speaks. 

AGENOR. 

Will the dawn never visit us ? These hours 
Toil heavy with the unresting curse they bear 



4 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

To do the work of desolating years ! 

All distant sounds are bush'd ; — the shriek of death 

And the survivors' wail are now unheard, 

As grief had worn itself to patience. Irus ! 

I 'm loath so soon to break thy scanty rest, 

But my heart sickens for the tardy morn ; 

Sure it is breaking ; — speed and look — yet hold, 

Know'st thou the fearful shelf of rock that hangs 

Above the encroaching waves, the loftiest point 

That stretches eastward 1 

IRUS. 

Know it ? Yes, my Lord ; 
There often have I bless'd the opening day, 
Which thy free kindness gave me leave to waste 
In happy wandering through the forests. 

AGENOR. 

Well, 
Thou art not then afraid to tread it ; there 
The earliest streak from the unrisen sun 



ION; A TRAGEDY. £ 

Is to be welcomed ;— tell me how it gleams, 
In bloody portent or in saffron hope, 
And hasten back to slumber. 

IRUS. 

I shall haste : 
Believe not that thy summons spoil'd my rest ; 
l| I was not sleeping. [Exit IRUS. 

AGENOR. 

Heaven be with thee, child ! 

His grateful mention of delights bestow'd 

i 

On that most piteous state of servile childhood 
By liberal words chance-dropp'd, hath touch'd a vein 
Of feeling which I deem'd for ever numb'd, 
1 And, by a gush of household memories, breaks 
The icy casing of that thick despair 
Which day by day hath gather'd o'er my heart ; 
While, basely safe, within this column'd circle, 
tJplifted far into the purer air 
And by Apollo's partial love secured, 



6 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

I have, in spirit, glided with the Plague 
As in foul darkness or in sickliest light, 
It wafted death through Argos ; and mine ears, 
Listening athirst for any human sound, 
Have caught the dismal cry of confused pain, 
Which to this dizzy height the fitful wind 
Hath borne from each sad quarter of the vale 
Where life was. 

Re-enter Irus. 
Are there signs of day-break I 

JRUS. 

None ; 
The eastern sky is still unbroken gloom. 

AGENOR. 

It cannot surely be. Thine eyes are dim 
(No fault of thine) for want of rest, or now 
I look upon them near, with scalding tears. 
Has care alighted on a head so young ! 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 

What grief hast thou been weeping ? 

IRUS. 

Pardon me ; 
I never thought at such a mournful time 
To plead my humble sorrow in excuse 
Of poorly-render'd service : but my brother — 
Thou mayst have noted him, — a sturdy lad, 
With eye so merry and with foot so light 
That none could chide his gamesomeness — fell sick 
But yesterday, and died in my weak arms 
Ere I could seek for stouter aid ; I hoped 
That I had taught my wretchedness to hide 
From thy observant care ; but when I stood 
Upon the well-known terrace where we loved, 
Arm link'd in arm, to watch the gleaming sails — 
His favorite pastime, for he burn'd to share 
A seaman's hardy lot, — my tears would flow, 
And I forgot to dry them. But I see 
Cleon is walking yonder ; let me call him ; 
For sure 'twill be a joy to speak with him. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 

AGENOR. 

Call him, good youth, and then go in to sleep, 

Or, if thou wilt, to weep. [Exit Irus, 

I envy thee 
The privilege, but Jupiter forfend 
That I should rob thee of it ! 

Enter Cleon. 

cleon. 

Hail, Agenor ! 
Dark as our lot remains, 'tis comfort yet 
To find thy age unstricken. 

AGENOR. 

Rather mourn 
That I am destined still to linger here 
In strange unnatural strength, while death is round me. 

1 chide these sinews that are framed so tough 
Grief cannot palsy them ; I chide the air 






ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Which round this citadel of nature breathes 
With sweetness not of this world ; I would share 
The common grave of my dear countrymen, 
And sink to rest while all familiar things 
Old custom has endear' d are failing with me, 
Nor bear to shiver on in life behind them : 
Nor should these walls detain me from the paths 
Where death may be embraced, but that my word, 
In a rash moment plighted to our host, 
Forbids me to depart without his license, 
Which firmly he refuses. 

CLEON. 
Grant me pardon 
If I rejoice to find the generous Priest 
Means, with Apollo's blessing, to preserve 
The treasure of thy wisdom ; — nay, he trusts not 
To promises alone ; his gates are barr'd 
Against thy egress : — none, indeed, may pass them 
Save the youth Ion, to whose earnest prayer 
His foster-father grants reluctant leave 



10 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

To visit the sad city at his will : 
And freely does he use the dangerous boon, 
Which, in my thought, the love that cherish'd him, 
Since he was found within the sacred grove 
Smiling amidst the storm, a most rare infant, 
Should have had sternness to deny. 

AGENOR. 

What, Ion 
The only inmate of this fane allowed 
To seek the mournful walks where death is busy ! — 
Ion our some-time darling, whom we prized 
As a stray gift, by bounteous Heaven dismiss'd 
From some bright sphere which sorrow may not cloud 
To make the happy happier ! Is he sent 
To grapple with the miseries of this time, 
Whose nature such etherial aspect wears 
As it would perish at the touch of wrong ? 
By no internal contest is he train'd 
For such hard duty ; no emotions rude 
Hath his clear spirit vanquish' d ; — Love, the germ 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 11 

Of his mild nature, hath spread graces forth, 
Expanding with its progress, as the store 
Of rainbow colour which the seed conceals 
Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury, 
To flush and circle in the flower. No tear 
Hath filPd his eye save that of thoughtful joy 
When, in the evening stillness, lovely things 
Press'd on his soul too busily ; his voice, 
If, in the earnestness of childish sports, 
Raised to the tone of anger, check'd its force, 
As if it fear'd to break its being's law, 
And falter'd into music. When the forms 
Of guilty passion have been made to live 
In pictured speech, and others have wax'd loud 
In righteous indignation, he hath heard 
With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein 
Of goodness, which surrounding gloom conceal'd, 
Struck sunlight o'er it : so his life hath flow'd 
From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, 
In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure 
Alone are mirror'd ; which, though shapes of ill 



12 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

May hover round its surface, glides in light, 
And takes no shadow from them. 



CLEON. 

Yet, methinks, 
Thou hast not lately met him, or a change 
Pass'd strangely on him had not miss'd thy wonder. 
His form appears dilated ; in these eyes, 
Where pleasure danced, a thoughtful sadness dwells 
Stern purpose knits the forehead, which till now 
Knew not the passing wrinkle of a care : 
Those limbs which in their heedless motion own'd 
A stripling's playful happiness, are strung 
As if the iron hardships of the camp 
Had given them sturdy nurture ; and his step, 
Its airiness of yesterday forgotten, 
Awakes the echoes of these desolate courts, 
As if a warrior of heroic mould 
Paced them in armour. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. IS 

AGENOR. 

Hope is in thy tale. 
This is no freak of Nature's wayward course, 
But work of pitying Heaven ; for not in vain 
The gods have pour'd into that guileless heart 
The strengths that nerve the hero; — they are ours. 

CLEON. 

How can he aid us I Can he stay the pulse 
Of ebbing life, — arrest the infected winds, 
Or smite the viewless spectre of the grave ? 

AGENOR. 

And dost thou think these breezes are our foes, — 
The innocent airs that used to dance around us, 
As if they felt the blessings they conveyed, 
Or that the death they bear is casual ? No ! 
'Tis human guilt that blackens in the cloud, 
Flashes athwart its mass in jagged fire, 
Whirls in the hurricane, pollutes the air, 



14 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

Turns all the joyous melodies of earth 
To murmurings of doom. There is a foe 
Who in the glorious summit of the state 
Draws down the great resentment of the gods, 
Whom he defies to strike us ; — yet his power 
Partakes that just infirmity which Nature 
Blends in the empire of her proudest sons-— 
That it is cased within a single breast, 
And may be plucked thence by a single arm. 
Let but that arm, selected by the gods, 
Do its great office on the tyrant's life, 
And Argos breathes again ! 

CLEON. 

A footstep ! — hush ! 
Thy wishes, falling on a slavish ear, 
Would tempt another outrage : 'tis a friend — 
An honest though a crabbed one — Timocles : 
Something hath ruffled him. — Good day, Timocles ! 

[Timocles imsses in front. 
He will not speak to us. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 15 

AGENOR. 

But he shall speak. 
Timocles — Day then, thus I must enforce thee; 

[staying him. 
Sure thou wilt not refuse a comrade's hand 
That may be cold ere sunset. 

TIMOCLES. [giving his hand.] 
Thou mayst school me ; 
Thy years and love have license : but I own not 
A stripling's mastery ; is 't fit, Agenor ? 

AGENOR. 

Nay, thou must tell thy wrong : whate'er it prove, 

I hail thy anger as a hopeful sign, 

For it revives the thought of household days, 

When the small bickerings of friends had space 

To fret, and Death was not for ever nigh 

To frown upon estrangement. What has moved thee ? 



16 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

TIMOCLES. 
I blush to tell it. Weary of the night 
And of iny life, I sought the western portal : 
It opened, and, ascending from the stair 
That through the rock winds spiral from the town, 
Ion, the foundling cherish'd by the Priest, 
Stood in the entrance : with such mild command 
As he has often smilingly obeyed, 
I bade him stand aside and let me pass ; 
When — wouldst thou think it ? — in determined speech 
He gave me counsel to return : I press'd 
Impatient onward : he, with honied phrase 
His daring act excusing, grasp'd my arm 
With strength resistless ; led me from the gate, 
Replaced its ponderous bars ; and, with a look 
As modest as he wore in childhood, left me. 

AGENOR. 

And thou wilt thank him for it soon ; he comes — 
Now hold thy angry purpose if thou canst ! 



ION: A TRAGEDY. 17 



Enter Ion. 

ion. 
I seek thee, good Timocles, to implore 
Again thy pardon. I am young in trust, 
And fear lest, in the earnestness of love, 
I stayed thy course too rudely. Thou hast borne 
My childish folly often, — do not frown 
If I have ventured with unmanner'd zeal 
To guard the ripe experiences of years 
From one rash moment's danger. 

TIMOCLES. 

Leave thy care* 
If I am weary of the flutterer life, 
Is mortal bidding thus to cage it in ? 

ION. 

And art thou tired of being ? Has the grave 
No terrors for thee ? Hast thou sunder d quite 

B 



18 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Those thousand meshes which old custom weaves 

To bind us earthward, and gay fancy films 

With airy lustre various ? Hast subdued 

Those cleavings of the spirit to its prison, 

Those nice regards, dear habits, pensive memories, 

That change the valour of the thoughtful breast 

To brave dissimulation of its fears ? 

Is Hope quench'd in thy bosom ? Thou art free, 

And in the simple dignity of man 

Standest apart untempted : — do not lose 

The great occasion thou hast pluck'd from misery, 

Nor play the spendthrift with a great despair, 

But use it nobly ! 

TIMOCLES. 
What to strike ? to slay ? 

ION. 

No ! — not unless the audible voice of Heaven 
Call thee to that dire office ; but to shed 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 19 

On ears abused by falsehood, truths of power 

In words immortal, — not such words as flash 

From the fierce demagogue's unthinking rage 

To madden for a moment and expire, — 

Nor such as the rapt orator imbues 

With warmth of facile sympathy, and moulds 

To mirrors radiant with fair images, 

To grace the noble fervour of an hour ; — 

But words which bear the spirit of great deeds 

Wing'd for the future ; which the dying breath 

Of Freedom's martyr shapes as it exhales, 

And to the most enduring forms of earth 

Commits — to linger in the craggy shade 

Of the huge valley, 'neath the eagle's home, 

Or in the sea-cave where the tempest sleeps, 

Till some heroic leader bid them wake 

To thrill the world with echoes ! — But I talk 

Of things above my grasp, which strangely press 

Upon my soul, and tempt me to forget 

The duties of my youth ; — pray you forgive me. 



20 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

TIMOCLES. 
Have I not said so ? 

AGENOR. 
Welcome to the morn ! 
The eastern gates unfold, the Priest approaches ; 
[As AGENOR speaks, the great gates at the back of the 
scene open ; the sea is discovered far beneath, — the 
dawn breaking over it; Medon, the Priest, enters 
attended.] 
And lo ! the sun is struggling with the gloom, 
Whose masses fill the eastern sky, and tints 
Its edges with dull red ; — but he will triumph; 
Bless'd be the omen ! 

MEDON. 

God of light and joy, 
Once more delight us with thy healing beams ! 
If I may trace thy language in the clouds 
That wait upon thy rising, help is nigh — 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 21 

But help achieved in blood. 

ION. 

Sayst thou in blood ? 

MEDON. 

Yes, Ion ! — why, he sickens at the word, 

Spite of his new-born strength ; — the sights of woe 

That he will seek have shed their paleness on him. 

Has this night's walk shown more than common sorrow? 

ION. 
I pass'd the palace where the frantic king 
Yet holds his crimson revel, whence the roar 
Of desperate mirth came, mingling with the sigh 
Of death-subdued robustness, and the gleam 
Of festal lamps mid spectral columns hung 
Flaunting o'er shapes of anguish made them ghastlier. 
How can I cease to tremble for the sad ones 
He mocks — and him the wretchedest of all I 



22 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

TIMOCLES. 
And canst thou pity him ? Dost thou discern, 
Amidst his impious darings, plea for him ? 

ION. 

Is he not childless, friendless, and a king I 

He 's human ; and some pulse of good must live 

Within his nature — have ye tried to wake it 1 

MEDON. 

Yes ; I believe he felt our sufferings once ; 
When, at my strong entreaty, he dispatch'd 
Phocion my son to Delphos, there to seek 
Our cause of sorrow ; but, as time dragg'd on 
Without his messenger's return, he grew 
Impatient of all counsel, — to his palace 
In awful mood retiring, wildly call'd 
The reckless of his court to share his stores 
And end all with him. When we dared disturb 
His dreadful feastings with a humble prayer 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 23 

That he would meet us, the poor slave who bore 
The message, flew back smarting from the scourge, 
And mutter' d a decree that he who next 
Unbidden met the tyrant's glance should die. 

AGENOR. 

I am prepared to brave it. 

CLEON. 

So am I. 



TIMOCLES. 



And I— 



ION. 
O do not think my prayer 
Bespeaks unseemly forwardness— send me ! 
The coarsest reed that trembles in the marsh, 
If Heaven select it for its instrument, 
May shed celestial music on the breeze 
As clearly as the pipe whose virgin gold 



24 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Befits the lip of Phoebus ; — ye are wise, 
And needed by your country ; ye are fathers: 
I am a lone stray thing, whose little life 
By strangers' bounty cherish'd, like a wave 
That from the summer sea a wanton breeze 
Lifts for a moment's sparkle, will subside 
Light as it rose, nor leave a sigh in breaking. 

MEDON. 

Ion, no sigh \ 

ION. 

Forgive me if I seem'd 
To doubt that thou wilt mourn me if I fall, 
Nor would I tax thy love with such a fear 
But that high promptings, which could never rise 
Spontaneous in my nature, bid me plead 
Thus boldly for the mission. 

MEDON. 

My brave boy ! 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 25 

It shall be as thou wilt. I see thou art call'd 
i To this great peril, and I will not stay thee. 
When wilt thou be prepared to seek it ? 



ION. 

Now. 
Only before I go, thus, on my knee, 

' Let me in one word thank thee for the joys 
With which my days were peopled ; — for a life 
Made by thy love a cloudless holiday ; 
And O, my more than father ! let me look 
Up to thy face as if indeed a father's, 

i And give me a son's blessing. 

MEDON. 

Bless thee, son ! 
I should be marble now ; let 's part at once. 

ION. 

If I should not return, bless Phocion from me ; 
And, for Clemanthe — may I speak one word, 



26 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

One parting word with my fair playfellow ? 

MEDON. 

If thou wouldst have it so, thou shalt. 

ION. 

Farewell then ! 
Your prayers wait on my steps. The arm of Heaven 
I feel in life or death will be around me. [Exit, 

MEDON. 

O grant it be in life ! Let 's to the sacrifice. 

[Exeunt. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 23 



SCENE II. 

An apartment of the Temple. Enter Clemanthe 
followed by Abra. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Is he so changed I 

ABRA. 

His bearing- is so alter'd 
That, distant, I scarce knew him for himself; 
But, looking in his face, I felt his smile 
Gracious as ever, though its sweetness wore 
Unwonted sorrow in it. 

CLEMANTHE. 

He will go 
To some high fortune, and forget us all, 
Reclaim' d (be sure of it) by noble parents ; 



28 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Me he forgets already ; for five days, 
Five melancholy days, I have not seen him. 

ABRA. 
Thou knowest that he has privilege to range 
The infected city, and, 'tis said, he spends 
The hours of needful rest in squalid hovels 
Where death is most forsaken. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Why is this ? 
Why should my father, niggard of the lives 
Of aged men, be prodigal of youth 
So rich in glorious prophecy as his ? 

ABRA. 

He comes to answer for himself. I '11 leave you. [Exit. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Stay ! Well my heart may guard its secret best 
By its own strength. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 29 



Enter Ion. 

ION. 
How fares my pensive sister ? 

CLEMANTHE. 

How should I fare but ill when the pale hand 
Draws the black foldings of the eternal curtain 
Closer and closer round us — Phocion absent — 
And thou, forsaking all within thy home, 
Wilt risk thy life with strangers, in whose aid 
Even thou canst do but little ? 

ION. 

It is little. 
But in these sharp extremities of fortune, 
The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter 
Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing 
To give a cup of water ; yet its draught 
Of cool refreshment drain'd by fever'd lips, 



30 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

May give a shock of pleasure to the frame 
More exquisite than when nectarean juice 
Renews the life of joy in festal hours. 
It is a little thing to speak a phrase 
Of common comfort which by daily use 
Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear 
Of him who thought to die unmourn'd 'twill fall 
Like choicest music ; fill the glaring eye 
With gentle tears ; relax the knotted hand 
To know the bonds of fellowship again ; 
And shed on the departing soul a sense 
More precious than the benison of friends 
About the honor'd deathbed of the rich, 
To him who else were lonely, that another 
Of the great family is near and feels. 

CLEMANTHE. 

O thou canst never bear these mournful offices ! 
So blithe, so merry once ! Will not the sight 
Of frenzied agonies unfix thy reason, 
Or the dumb woe congeal thee I 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 31 



ION. 

No, Clemanthe ; 
They are the patient sorrows that touch nearest ! 
If thou hadst seen the warrior while he writhed 
In the last grapple of his mighty frame 
With mightier anguish, strive to cast a smile 
(And not in vain) upon his fragile wife, 
Waning beside him, — and, his limbs composed, 
The widow of the moment fix her gaze 
Of longing, speechless love, upon the babe, 
The only living thing which yet was hers, 
Spreading its arms for its own resting-place, 
Yet with attenuated hand wave off 
The unstricken child, and so embraceless die, 
Stifling the mighty hunger of the heart ; 
Thou couldst endure the sight of selfish grief 
In sullenness or frenzy ; — but to-day 
Another lot falls on me. 



32 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Thou wilt leave us ! 
I read it plainly in thy alter'd mien ; — 
Is it for ever ? 

ION. 

That is with the gods. 
1 go but to the palace, urged by hope, 
Which from afar hath darted on my soul, 
That to the humbleness of one like me 
The haughty king may listen. 

CLEMANTHE. 

To the palace ! 
Knowest thou the peril — nay the certain issue 
That waits thee ? Death ! — The tyrant has decreed it, 
Confirmed it with an oath ; and he has power 
To keep that oath ; for, hated as he is, 
The reckless soldiers who partake his riot 
Are swift to do his bidding. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 33 

ION. 
I know all ; 
But they who call me to the work can shield me, 
Or make me strong- to suffer. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Then the sword 
Falls on thy neck ! O Gods ! to think that thou, 
Who in the plenitude of youthful life 
Art now before me, ere the sun decline, 
Perhaps in one short hour shalt lie cold, cold, 
| To speak, smile, bless no more ! — Thou shalt not go ! 

ION. 

Thou must not stay me, fair one ; even thy father, 
Who (blessings on him !) loves me as his son, 
Yields to the will of Heaven. 

CLEMANTHE, 

And he can do this ! 
c 



•34 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

I shall not bear his presence if thou fallest 
By his consent ; so shall I be alone. 

ION. 

Phocion will soon return, and juster thoughts 
Of thy admiring father close the gap 
Thy old companion left behind him. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Never ! 
What will to me be father, brother, friends, 
When thou art gone — the light of our life quench'd — 
Haunting like spectres of departed joy 
The home where thou wert dearest ? 

ION. 

Thrill me not 
With words that in their agony suggest 
A hope too ravishing, — or my head will swim, 
And my heart faint within me. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 35 

CLEMANTHE. 

Has my speech 
Such blessed power? I will not mourn it then, 
Though it hath told a secret I had borne 
Till death in silence ; — how affection grew 
To this, I know not ; — day succeeded day, 
Each fraught with the same innocent delights, 
Without one shock to ruffle the disguise 
Of sisterly regard which veil'd it well, 
Till thy changed mien reveal'd it to my soul, 
And thy great peril makes me bold to tell it. 
Do not despise it in me ! 

ION. 

With deep joy 
Thus I receive it. Trust me, it is long 
Since I have learn'd to tremble midst our pleasures, 
Lest I should break the golden dream around me 
With most ungrateful rashness. I should bless 
The sharp and perilous duty which hath press'd 



36 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

A life's deliciousness into these moments, — 
Which here must end. I came to say, farewell, 
And the word must be said. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Thou canst not mean it ! 
Have I disclaim'd all maiden bashfulness 
To tell the cherish'd secret of my soul 
To my soul's master, and in rich return 
Obtain'd the dear assurance of his love, 
To hear him speak that miserable word, 
I cannot — will not echo I 

ION. 

Heaven has call'd me, 
And I have pledged my honor. When thy heart 
Bestow'd its preference on a friendless boy, 
Thou didst not image him a recreant ; nor 
Must he prove so. by thy election crown'd. 
Thou hast endow'd me with the right to claim 
Thy help through this our journey? be its course 



^^H 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 37 

Lengthen'd to age, or in an hour to end, 
And now I ask it ! — bid my courage hold, 
And with thy free approval send me forth 
In soul apparell'd for my office ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Go! 
I would not have thee other than thou art, 
Living or dying — and if thou shouldst fall — 

ION. 

Be sure I shall return. 

CLEMANTHE. 

If thou shouldst fall, 
I shall be happier as the affianced bride 
Of thy cold ashes, than in proudest fortunes — 
Thine — ever thine — [she faints in his arms. 

ion. [calls.] 
Abra! — So best to part— [Enter Abra. 



38 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Let her have air ; be near her through the day ; 
I know thy tenderness — should ill news come 
Of any friend, she will require it all. 

[Abra bears Clemanthe out. 
Ye Gods, that have enrich'd the life ye claim 
With priceless treasure, strengthen me to yield it ! 

[Exit. 



END OF ACT I. 






ACT THE SECOND. 



I 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

A Terrace of the Palace. 

ADRASTUS, CRYTHES. 
ADRASTUS. 

The air breathes freshly after our long night 
Of glorious revelry. I'll walk awhile. 

CRYTHES. 

It blows across the town ; dost thou not fear 
It bear infection with it ? 

ADRASTUS. 

Fear ! dost talk 
Of fear to me ? I deem'd even thy poor thoughts 



42 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Had better scann'd their master. Prithee tell me 
In what act, word, or look, since I have borne 
Thy converse here, hast thou discern'd such baseness 
As makes thee bold to prate to me of fear 1 

CRYTHES. 

My liege, of human might all know thee fearless, 
But may not heroes shun the elements 
When sickness taints them? 

ADRASTUS, 

Let them blast me now— 
I stir not ; tremble not; these massive walls, 
Whose date o'erawes tradition, gird the home 
Of a great race of kings, along whose line 
The eager mind lives aching, through the darkness 
Of ages else unstoried, till its shapes 
Of armed sovereigns spread to godlike port, 
And, frowning in the uncertain dawn of time, 
Strike awe, as powers who ruled an elder world, 
In mute obedience. I, sad heriter 






ION ; A TRAGEDY. 43 

Of all their glories, feel our doom is nigh; 

And I will meet it as befits their fame ; 

Nor will I vary my selected path, 

The breadth of my sword's edge, nor check a wish, 

If such unkingly yielding might avert it. 

CRYTHES. 

Thou art ever royal in thy thoughts. 

ADRASTUS. 

No more — 
I would be private. [Exit Crythes. 

Grovelling parasite ! 
Why should I waste these fate-en viron'd hours, 
And pledge my high defiance to despair 
With flatterers such as thou ;— as if my joys 
Required the pale reflections cast by slaves 
In mirror'd mockery round my throne, or lack'd 
The aid of reptile sympathies to stream 
Through fate's black pageantry. Let weakness seek 
Companionship : I '11 henceforth feast alone. 



44 ION; A TRAGEDY. 



Enter a Soldier. 

SOLDIER. 

My liege, forgive me. 

ADRASTUS. 

Well ! Speak out at once 
Thy business, and retire. 

SOLDIER. 

I have no part 
In the presumptuous message that I bear. 

ADRASTUS. 

Tell it, or go. There is no time to waste 
On idle terrors. 

SOLDIER. 

Thus it is, my lord : — 
As we were burnishing our arms, a man 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 45 

Enter'd the court, and when we saw him first 
Was tending towards the palace ; in amaze, 
We hail'd the rash intruder ; still he walk'd 
Unheeding onward, till the western gate 
Barr'd further course ; then turning, he besought 
Our startled band to lead him to the king, 
That he might urge a message which the sages 
Had charged him to deliver. 

ADRASTUS. 

Ha ! the greybeards 
Who, mid the altars of the gods, conspire 
To cast the image of supernal power 
From earth, which it ennobles. What old rebel 
Is so resolved to play the orator 
That he would die for 't ? 

SOLDIER. 

He is but a youth, 
Yet urged his prayer with a sad constancy 
Which could not be denied. 



40 ION; A TRAGEDY, 



ADRASTUS. 

O bravely plann'd 
This is sedition worthy of the herd 
Of sophist traitors ; brave to scatter fancies 
Of discontent midst sturdy artisans, 
Whose honest sinews they direct unseen, 
And make their proxies in the work of peril ! — 
Tis fit, when burning to insult their king, 
And warn'd the pleasure must be bought with life, 
Their valour send a boy to speak their wisdom ! 
Thou know'st my last decree ; tell this rash youth 
The danger he incurs ; — then let him pass, 
And own the king more gentle than his masters. 

SOLDIER. 

We have already told him of the fate 

Which waits his daring ; courteously he thank'd us, 

But still with solemn accent urged his suit. 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 47 

ADRASTUS. 
Tell him once more, if he persists, he dies — 
Then, if he will, admit him. Should he hold 
His purpose, order Crythes to conduct him, 
And see the headsman instantly prepare 
To do his office. [Exit Soldi kr. 

So resolved, so young — 
'Twere pity he should fall ; yet he must fall, 
Or the great sceptre, which hath sway'd the fears 
Of ages, will become a common staff 
For youth to wield or age to rest upon, 
Despoii'd of all its virtues. He must fall, 
Else they who prompt the insult will grow bold, 
And with their pestilent vauntings through the city 
Raise the low fog of murky discontent, 
Which now creeps harmless through its marshy birth- 
place, 
To veil my setting glories. He is warn'd ; 
And if he cross yon threshold, he shall die. 



48 ION; A TRAGEDY, 



Enter Crythes and Ion. 

CRYTHES. 

The king ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Stranger, I bid thee welcome ; 
We are about to tread the same dark passage, 
Thou almost on the instant. — Is the sword 

[To Crythes. 
Of justice sharpen'd, and the headsman ready? 

crythes. 
Thou mayst behold them plainly in the court ; 
Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground ; 
The steel gleams on the altar ; and the slave 
Disrobes himself for duty. 

ADRASTUS. [To IoN.] 

Dost thou see them? 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 49 



ION. 



I do. 



ADRASTUS. 
By Heaven, be does not change ! 
If, even now, thou wilt depart and leave 
Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free. 



ION. 

I thank thee for thy offer ; but I stand 

Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich 

In all that makes life precious to the brave ; 

Who perish not alone, but in their fall 

Break the far-spreading tendrils that they feed, 

And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear me 

For them, I am content to speak no more. 



ADRASTUS. 

Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes ! till yon dial 
Cast its thin shadow on the approaching hour, 



50 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant, 
Come without word and lead him to his doom. 
Now leave us. 

CRYTHES. 

What, alone 1 

ADRASTUS. 

Yes, slave ! alone. 
He is no assassin ! [Exit Crythes. 

Tell me who thou art. 
What generous source owns that heroic blood, 
Which holds its course thus bravely 1 What great wars 
Have nursed the courage that can look on death, 
Certain and speedy death, with placid eye 1 

ION. 

I am a simple youth, who never bore 

The weight of armour, — one who may not boast 

Of noble birth or valour of his own. 

Deem not the powers which nerve me thus to speak 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 51 

In thy great presence, and have made my heart 

Upon the verge of bloody death as calm, 

As equal in its beatings, as when sleep 

Approach'd me nestling from the sportive toils 

Of thoughtless childhood, and celestial dreams 

Began to glimmer through the deepening shadows 

Of soft oblivion, to belong to me — 

These are the strengths of Heaven ; to thee they speak, 

Bid thee to hearken to thy people's cry, 

Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come ! 

ADRASTUS. 

I know it must ; so mayst thou spare thy warnings ; 

The envious gods in me have doom'd a race, 

Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts, 

Whence their own dawn'd upon the infant world ; 

And I shall sit on my ancestral throne 

To meet their vengeance ; but till then I rule, 

As I have ever ruled, and thou wilt feel. 



52 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

ION. 

I will not further urge thy safety to thee ; 

It may be, as thou sayst, too late ; nor seek 

To make thee tremble at the gathering curse 

Which shall break out triumphant at thy fall ; 

But thou art gifted with a nobler sense — 

I know thou art, my sovereign — sense of pain 

Endured by myriad Argives, in whose souls, 

And in whose fathers' souls, thou and thy fathers 

Have kept their cherish'd state ; whose heartstrings, still 

The living fibres of thy rooted power, 

Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn 

From heavenly justice on them. 

ADRASTUS. 

How ! my crimes ? 

ION. 

Yes ; 'tis the eternal law that where guilt is, 
Sorrow shall answer it ; and thou hast not 



I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 53 



A poor man's privilege to bear alone, 
Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen 
The penalties of evil, for in thine 
A nation's fate is circled. — King Adrastus ! 



'i 



Mail'd as thy heart is with the usages 

Of pomp and power, a few short summers since 

Thou wert a child, and canst not be relentless. 

O, if maternal love embraced thee then, 

Think of the mothers who with eyes unwet 

Glare o'er their perishing children : hast thou shared 

The glow of a first friendship, which is born 

Midst the rude sports of boyhood, think of youth 

Smitten amidst its playthings ; — let the spirit 

Of thy own innocent childhood whisper pity ! 

ADRASTUS. 

In every word thou dost but steel my soul. 
My youth was blasted ; — parents, brother, kin — 
All that should people infancy with joy — 
Conspired to poison mine ; despoil'd my life 
Of innocence and hope — all but the sword 



54 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

And sceptre — dost thou wonder at me now ? 

ION. 

I knew that we should pity — 

ADRASTUS. 

Pity ! dare 
To speak that word again, and torture waits thee ! 
I am yet king of Argos. Well, go on — 
Thy time is short, and I am pledged to hear. 

ION. 

If thou hast ever loved — 

ADRASTUS. 

Beware ! beware ! 

ION. 

Thou hast ! I see thou hast ! Thou art not marble, 
And thou shalt hear me ! — Think upon the time 
When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 55 

Were ruffled with the tremblings of strange joy, 
As if some unseen visitant from heaven 
Touch'd the calm lake and wreath'd its images 
In sparkling waves ; — recall the dallying hope 
That on the margin of assurance trembled, 
As loth to lose in certainty too bless'd 
Its happy being ; — taste in thought again 
Of the stolen sweetness of those evening walks, 
When pansied turf was air to winged feet, 
And circling forests by etherial touch 
Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky, 
As if about to melt in golden light 
Shapes of one heavenly vision ; and thy heart 
Enlarged by its new sympathy with one, 
Grew bountiful to all ! 

ADRASTUS. 

That tone ! that tone ! 
Whence came it ? from thy lips 1 It cannot be — 
The long-hush'd music of the only voice 
That ever spake unbought affection to me, 



56 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

And waked my soul to blessing ! — O sweet hours 
Of golden joy, ye come ! your glories break 
Through my pavilion'd spirit's sable folds ! 
Roll on ! roll on ! — Stranger, thou dost enforce me 
To speak of things uubreathed by lip of mine 
To human ear ; — wilt listen ? 

ION. 

As a child. 

ADRASTUS. 

Again ! that voice again ! — thou hast seen me moved 
As never mortal saw me, by a tone 
Which some light breeze, enamour'd of the sound, 
Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice 
Caught it to rive and mock me. At my birth 
This city, which, expectant of its Prince, 
Lay hush'd, broke out in clamorous ecstacies ; 
Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups 
Foam'd with the choicest product of the sun, 
And welcome thundered from a thousand throats 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 57 

My doom was seal'd. From the hearth's vacant space, 

In the dark chamber where my mother lay, 

Faint with the sense of pain-bought happiness, 

Came forth, in heart-appalling tone, these words 

Of me the nurseling — " Woe unto the babe ! 

" Against the life which now begins shall life 

" Lighted from thence be arm'd, and both soon quench'd, 

" End this great line in sorrow ! " — Ere I grew 

Of years to know myself a thing accursed, 

A second son was born, to steal the love 

Which fate had else scarce rifled : he became 

My parents' hope, the darling of the crew 

Who lived upon their smiles, and thought it flattery 

To trace in every foible of my youth — 

A prince's youth ! — the workings of the curse ; 

My very mother — God ! I cannot bear 

To speak it now — look'd freezingly upon me ! 

ION. 

But thy brother — 



58 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

ADRASTUS. 

Died. Thou hast heard the lie, 
The common lie that every peasant tells 
Of me his master, — that I slew the boy. 
? Tis false : — one summer's eve, below a crag 
Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climb, 
He lay a mangled corpse : the very slaves, 
Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart, 
Now coin'd their own injustice into proof 
To brand me as his murderer. 

ION. 

Did they dare 
Accuse thee ? 

ADRASTUS. 
Not in open speech : — they felt 
I should have seized the miscreant by the throat, 
And crush'd the lie half-spoken with the life 
Of the base speaker ; — but the tale look'd out 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 59 

From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrunk 
When mine has met them ; murmur'd through the crowd 
That at the sacrifice, or feast, or game 
Stood distant from me ; burnt into my soul 
When I beheld it in my father's shudder. 

ION. 

Didst not declare thy innocence ? 



ADRASTUS. 

To whom ? 
To parents who could doubt me ? To the ring 
Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons, 
Who should have studied to prevent my wish 
Before it grew to language ; hail'd my choice 
To service as a prize to wrestle for ; 
And whose reluctant courtesy 1 bore, 
Pale with proud anger, till from lips compress'd 
The blood has started 1 To the common herd, 
The vassals of our ancient house, the mass 
Of bones and muscles framed to till the soil 



60 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

A few brief years, then rot unnamed beneath it, 
Or, deck'd for slaughter at their monarch's call, 
To smite and to be smitten, and lie crush'd 
In heaps to swell his glory or his shame ? 
Answer to them : No ! though my heart had burst, 
As it was nigh to bursting ! — To the mountains 
I fled, and on their pinnacles of snow 
Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool 
My spirit's fever — struggled with the oak 
In search of weariness, and learn'd to rive 
Its stubborn boughs, till limbs once lightly strung 
Might mate in cordage with its infant stems ; 
Or on the sea-beat rock tore off the vest 
Which burnt upon my bosom, and to air 
Headlong committed, clove the water's depth 
Which plummet never sounded ; — but in vain. 



ION, 



Yet succour came to thee I 



I O N ; A T R A G E I) Y. 61 

ADRASTUS. 

A blessed one ! 
Which the strange magic of thy voice revives, 
And thus unlocks my soul : my rapid steps 
Were in a wood-encircled valley stayed 
By the bright vision of a maid, whose face 
Most lovely more than loveliness reveal'd, 
In touch of patient grief, which dearer seem'd 
Than happiness to spirit sear'd like mine. 
With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth 
The body of her aged sire, whose death 
Left her alone. I aided her sad work, 
And soon two lonely ones by holy rites 
Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months, 
In streamlike unity flow'd silent by us 
In our delightful nest. My father's spies — 
Slaves, whom my nod should have consign'd to stripes 
Or the swift falchion — track'd our sylvan home 
Just as my bosom knew its second joy, 
And, spite of fortune, I embraced a son. 



62 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

ION. 
Commission'd by thy parents to avert 
That dreadful prophecy? 

ADRASTUS. 

Fools ! did they deem 
Its worst accomplishment could match the ill 
Which they wrought on me ? It had left unharm'd 
A thousand ecstacies of passion'd years, 
Which, tasted once, live ever, and disdain 
Fate's iron grapple ! Could I now behold 
That son with knife uplifted at my heart, 
A moment ere my life-blood follow'd it 
I would embrace him with my dying eyes, 
And pardon destiny ! While crysome smiles 
Wreathed on the infant's face, as if sweet spirits 
Suggested pleasant fancies to its soul, 
The ruffians broke upon us; seized the child; 
Dash'd through the thicket to the beetling rock 
'Neath which the deep wave eddies : I stood still 



ION; A TRAGEDY. G3 

As stricken into stone : I heard him cry, 
Press'd by the rudeness of the murderers' gripe, 
Severer ill unfearing — then the splash 
Of waters that shall cover him for ever ; 
And could not stir to save him ! 

ION. 

And the mother — 

ADRASTUS. 
She spake no word, but clasp'd me in her arms, 
And lay her down to die. A lingering gaze 
Of love she fix'd on me — none other loved, 
And so pass'd hence. By Jupiter, her look ! 
Her dying patience glimmers in thy face! 
She lives again ! She looks upon me now ! 
There's magic in't. Bear with me — I am childish. 

Enter Crythes and Guards. 
ADRASTUS. 

Why art thou here? 



64 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

CRYTHES. 

The dial points the hour. 

ADRASTUS. 
Dost thou not see that horrid purpose past ? 
Hast thou no heart — no sense ? 

CRYTHES. 

Scarce half an hour 
Hath flown since the command on which I wait. 

ADRASTUS. 

Scarce half an hour!— years — years have roll'd since then. 
Begone; remove that pageantry of death — 
It blasts my sight — and harken ! Touch a hair 
Of this brave youth, or look on him as now 
With thy cold hangman's eye, and yonder band 
Shall not desire a spectacle in vain. 

Hence without word. [Exit Crythes. 

What wouldst thou have me do ? 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 65 

ION. 
Let thy awaken'd heart speak its own language ; 
Convene thy sages ; — frankly, nobly meet them ; 
Explore with them the pleasure of the gods, 
And, at however high a cost, perform it. 

ADRASTTJS. 
Well ! I will seek their presence in an hour ; 
Go summon them, young hero : — hold ! no word 
Of the strange passion thou hast witness'd here. 

ION. 

Distrust me not. — Benignant Powers, I thank ye ! [Exit. 

ADRASTUS. 

Yet stay — he 's gone — his spell is on me yet ; 
What have I promised him ? To meet the men 
Who from my living head would strip the crown 
A.nd sit in judgment on me ? — I must do it — 
Yet shall my band be ready to o'erawe 

E 



66 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

The course of liberal speech, and, if it rise 
So as too loudly to offend my ear, 
Strike the rash brawler dead ! — what idle dream 
Of long-past days had melted me 1 It fades — • 
It vanishes — I am again a king ! 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 67 



SCENE II. 

The interior of the Temple. 
[Same as Act I. Scene I.] 

[Clemanthe seated — Abra attending her.~\ 

ABRA. 
Look, dearest lady ! — the thin smoke aspires 
In the calm air, as when in happier times 
It show'd the gods propitious ; wilt thou seek 
Thy chamber, lest thy father and his friends, 
Returning, find us hinderers of their council 1 
She answers not — she hearkens not— with joy 
Could I believe her, for the first time, sullen ! — 
Still she is rapt. 

[Enter Agenor.] 
O, speak to my sweet mistress, 



68 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Haply thy voice may rouse her. 

AGENOR. 

Dear Clemanthe, 
Hope dawns in every omen ; we shall hail 
Our tranquil hours again. 

[Enter Medon, Cleon, Timocles, and others.} 

MEDON. 

Clemanthe here ! 
How sad ! how pale ! 

ABRA. 
Her eye is kindling — hush I 

CLEMANTHE. 

Hark ! hear ye not a distant footstep ? 

MEDON. 

No. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 69 

Look round, my fairest child ; thy friends are near thee. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Yes ! — now 'tis lost — 'tis on the winding-stair — 
Nearer and more distinct — 'tis his — 'tis his — 
He lives ! he comes ! 

[Clemanthe rises and rushes to the back of the stage, 
at which Ion appears, and returns with him.~] 
Here is your messenger, 
Whom Heaven has rescued from the tyrant's rage 
Which ye permitted him to brave. Rejoice 
That ye are guiltless of his blood ! — why pause ye, 
Why shout ye not his welcome ? 

MEDON. 

Dearest girl, 
This is no scene for thee ; go to thy chamber, 
I '11 come to thee ere long. 

[Exeunt Clemanthe and Abra.] 
She is o'erwrought 



70 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

By fear and joy for one whose infant hopes 
Were mix'd with hers, even as a brother's. 

TIMOCLES. 

Ion! 
How shall we do thee honor? 

ION. 

None is due 
Save to the gods whose gracious influence sways 
The king ye deem'd relentless ; — he consents 
To meet the sages presently in council ; 
And, linger not, lest this benign resolve 
Prove the last rally of his nobler nature, 
In fitful strength, ere it be quench'd for ever ! 

MEDON. 

Haste to your seats ; I will but speak a word 

With our brave friend, and follow ; though convened 

In speed, let our assembly lack no forms 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 71 

Of due observance, which to furious power 

Plead with the silent emphasis of years. 

[Exeunt all but Medon and Ion. 

Ion draw near me ; this eventful day 

Hath shown thy nature's graces circled round 

With firmness which accomplishes the hero ; — 

And it would bring to me but one proud thought 

That virtues which required not culture's aid 

Shed their first fragrance 'neath my roof, and there 

Found shelter ; — but it also hath reveal'd 

What I may not hide from thee, that my child, 

My blithe and innocent girl — more fair in soul, 

More delicate in fancy than in mould — 

» 
Loves thee with other than a sister's love. 

I should have cared for this : I vainly deem'd 

A fellowship in childhood's thousand joys 

And household memories had nurtured friendship 

Which might hold blameless empire in the soul ; 

But in that guise the traitor hath stolen in, 

And the fair citadel is thine. 



72 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

ION. 

Tis true. 
I did not think the nurseling of thy house 
Could thus disturb its holiest inmate's duty 
With selfish aspirations ;— but we met 
As playmates who might never meet again, 
And then the hidden truth flash'd forth, and show'd 
To each the image in the other's soul 
In one bright instant. Fear not lest my fortunes 
So dim should hold a maiden in their thrall 
Borne to be happy ; I have that within 
Which warns me that I shall not disturb them long. 

MEDON. 

Far be the presage !— do I hear aright 

That in no gracious pity, but in love 

Free as her own, thy plighted faith is hers ? 

ION. 

Indeed ! indeed ! and canst thou love me still, 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 73 

My rebel wish disclosed i 

MEDON. 

My son ! my son ! 
Tis we should feel uplifted, for the seal 
Of greatness is upon thee ; yet I know 
That when the gods, won by thy virtues, draw 
The veil which now conceals their lofty birthplace, 
Thou wilt not spurn the maid who prized them lowly. 

ION. 

Spurn her ! My father ! 

[Enter Ctesiphon.] 

MEDON. 

Ctesiphon ! — and breathless — 
Art come to chide me to the council ? 

CTESIPHON. 

No; 



74 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

To bring unwonted joy ; thy son has landed. 

ME DON. 

Thank Heaven ! Hast spoken with him ? Is he well ? 

CTESIPHON. 
I strove in vain to reach him, for the crowd 
Roused from the untended couch and dismal hearth 
By the strange visiting of hope, press'd round him ; 
But, by his head erect and fiery glance, 
I know that he is well, and that he bears 
A message which shall shake the tyrant. [Shouts.] See ! 
The throng is tending this way — now it parts, 
And yields him to thy arms. 

Enter Phocion. 

medon. 

Welcome, my Phocion — 
Long waited for in Argos, how detain'd 
Now matters not, since thou art here in joy. 






ION; A TRAGEDY. 75 

Hast brought the answer of the god 1 

PHOCION. 

I have : 
Now let Adrastus tremble ! 

MEDON. 

May we hear it l 

PHOCION. 

I am sworn first to utter it to him. 

OTESIPHON. 

But it is fatal to him ! — Say but that ! 

PHOCION. 

Ha, Ctesiphon ! — I mark'd thee not before ; 
How fares thy father ? 

ion. [To Phocion.] 
Do not speak of him. 



76 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

ctesiphon. [Overhearing Ion] 
Not speak of him ! Dost think there is a moment 
When common things eclipse the burning thought 
Of him and vengeance ? 

PHOCION. 
Has the tyrant's sword — 

CTESIPHON. 

No, Phocion ; that were merciful and brave 

Compared to his base deed ; yet will I tell it 

To make the flashing of thine eye more deadly, 

And edge thy words that they may rive his heartstrings. 

The last time that Adrastus dared to face 

The sages of the state, although my father, 

Yielding to nature's mild decay, had left 

All worldly toil and hope, he gather'd strength, 

In his old seat, to speak one word of warning. 

Thou knowest how bland with years his wisdom grew, 

And with what phrases, steep'd in love, he sheath'd 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 77 

The sharpness of rebuke ; yet, ere his speech 
Was done, the tyrant started from his throne, 
And with his base hand smote him ; — 'twas his death- 
stroke ! 
The old man totter'd home, and only once 
Raised his head after. 

PHOCTON. 

Thou wert absent ? Fool ! 
How could I ask the question ! 

CTESIPHON. 

Had I seen 
That sacrilege, the tyrant had lain dead, 
Or I had been torn piecemeal by his minions. 
But I was far away : when I return'd, 
I found my father on the nearest bench 
Within our door, his thinly silver'd head 
Supported by wan hands which hid his face 
And would not be withdrawn ; — no groan, no sigh 
Was audible, and we might only learn 



78 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

By short convulsive tremblings of his frame 

That life still flicker'd in it — yet at last, 

By some unearthly inspiration roused, 

He dropp'd his wither'd hands, and sat erect 

As in his manhood's glory— the free blood 

Flush 'd crimson through his cheeks, his furrow'd brow 

Expanded clear, and his eyes open'd full 

Gleam'd with a youthful fire ; — I fell in awe 

Upon my knees before him — still he spake not, 

But slowly raised his arm untrembling ; clench'd 

His hand as if it grasp'd an airy dagger, 

And struck in air ; my hand was join'd with his 

In nervous grasp — my lifted eye met his, 

In stedfast gaze — my pressure answer'd his — 

We knew at once each other's thought ; a smile 

Of the old sweetness play'd upon his lips, 

And life forsook him : with unthinking rage 

Unarm'd I sought the tyrant, to be driven 

From his proud gates with mockery by the hirelings, 

Who with their base swords circle him. He lives — 

And I am here to babble of revenge ! 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 79 

PHOGION. 
It comes, my friend — haste with me to the king ! 

ION. 
Even while we speak, Adrastus meets his council ; 
There let us seek him ; should ye find him touch'd 
With penitence, as happily ye may, 
O, give allowance to his soften'd nature ! 

CTESIPHON. 
Show grace to him ! — Dost dare 1 — I had forgot, 
Thou dost not know what 'tis to love a father ! 

ION. 

I know enough to feel for thee ; I know 

Thou hast endured the vilest wrong that tyranny 

In its worst frenzy can inflict ; — yet think, 

O think ! before the irrevocable deed 

Shuts out all thought, how much of power's excess 

Is theirs who raise the idol : — do we groan 



80 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

Beneath the personal force of this rash man, 

Who forty summers since hung at the breast 

A playful weakling ; whom the heat unnerves ; 

The north-wind pierces ; and the hand of death 

May, in a moment, change to clay as vile 

As that of the scourged slave whose chains it severs ? 

No ! 'tis our weakness gasping for the shows 

Of outward strength that builds up tyranny, 

And makes it look so glorious : — If we shrink 

Faint-hearted from the reckoning of our span 

Of mortal days, we pamper the fond wish 

For long duration in a line of kings. 

If the rich pageantry of thoughts must fade 

All unsubstantial as the regal hues 

Of eve which purpled them, our cunning frailty 

Must robe a living image with their pomp, 

And wreathe a diadem around its brow, 

In which our sunny fantasies may live 

Empearl'd, and gleam, in fatal splendor, far 

On after ages. We must look within 

For that which makes us slaves ; — on sympathies 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 81 

Which find no kindred objects in the plain 
Of common life — affections that aspire 
In air too thin — and fancy's dewy film 
Floating for rest ; for even such delicate threads, 
Gather'd by fate's engrossing hand, supply 
The eternal spindle whence she weaves the bond 
Of cable strength in which our nature struggles ! 

CTESIPHON. 

Go talk to others if thou wilt ; — to me 
All argument, but that of steel, is idle. 

MEDON. 

No more ; — let 's to the council — there, my son, 
Tell thy great message nobly ; — and for thee 
Poor orphan'd youth, be sure the gods are just ! 

[Exeunt. 



82 ION; A TRAGEDY. 



SCENE III. 

The great Square of the City. Adrastus seated on a 
throne; Agenor, Timocles, Cleon, and others, 
seated as Councillors — Soldiers line the stage at a 
distance. 

ADRASTUS. 

Upon your summons, Sages, I am here ; 

Your king attends to know your pleasure — speak it ! 

AGENOR. 

And canst thou ask ? If the heart dead within thee 
Receives no impress of this awful time, 
Art thou of sense forsaken 1 Are thine ears 
So charm 'd by strains of slavish minstrelsy 
That the dull groan and frenzy-pointed shriek 
Pass them unheard to Heaven ? Or are thine eyes 
So conversant with prodigies of grief 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 83 

They cease to dazzle at them ? Art thou arm'd 
'Gainst wonder, while, in all things, nature turns 
To dreadful contraries ; — while Youth's full cheek 
Is shrivell'd into furrows of sad years, 
And 'neath its glossy curls untinged by care 
Looks out a keen anatomy ; — while Age 
Is stung by feverish torture for an hour 
Into youth's strength ; — while manly Sorrow steals 
From fragile girlishness hysteric tears ; — 
While Womanhood, made hardy by despair, 
Starts into frightful courage, all unlike 
The gentle strength its gentle weakness feeds 
To make affliction beautiful, and stalks 
Abroad, a tearless, an unshuddering thing ; — 
While Childhood, roaming parentless and free, 
Finds, in the shapes of wretchedness which seem 
Grotesque to its unsadden'd vision, cause 
For dreadful mirth that shortly shall be hush'd 
In never-broken silence ; and while Love, 
Immortal through all change, makes ghastly Death 
Its idol of desire, and restless seeks, 



84 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

'Mid images sepulchral, for the gauds 
To cheat its fancy with I — Do sights like these 
Glare through the realm thou shouldst be parent to, 
And canst thou find the voice to ask " our pleasure ? 

ADRASTUS. 

Cease, babbler ; — wherefore would ye stun my ears 
With vain recital of the griefs I know, 
And cannot heal 1 — will treason turn aside 
The shafts of fate, or cure the ills of nature ? 
I have no skill in medicine, and no power 
To sway the elements. 

AGENOR. 

Thou hast the power 
To cast away thy flatterers ; to put on 
Some show of pity for thy people's sorrows ; 
To throw thyself upon the ground with them 
In lowly penitence ; or, if this power 
Hath left a heart made weak by luxury 
And hard by pride, thou had at least the power 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 85 

To cease the mockery of thy frantic revels. 

ADRASTUS. 

I have yet power to punish insult — look, 

I use it not, Agenor! — Fate may dash 

My sceptre from me, but shall not command 

My will to hold it with a feebler grasp ; 

Nay, if few hours of empire yet are mine, 

They shall be colored with a sterner pride, 

And peopled with more lustrous joys than flush'd 

In the serene procession of its greatness, 

Which look'd perpetual, as the flowing course 

Of human things. Have ye beheld a pine 

That clasp'd the mountain summit with a root 

As firm as its rough marble, and apart 

From the huge shade of undistinguish'd trees, 

Lifted its head as in delight to share 

The evening glories of the sky, and taste 

The wanton dalliance of the heavenly breeze 

That no ignoble vapour from the vale 

Could climb to mingle with, — in wild caprice 



86 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Of frolic, Jove, smit by the thunder's marl 

And lighted for destruction ? How it stood 

One glorious moment, fringed and wreathed with flame 

Which show'd the inward graces of its shape, 

Uncumber'd now, and midst its topmost boughs 

That young Ambition's airy fancies made 

Their giddy nest, leap'd sportive ; — never clad 

By liberal summer in a pomp so rich 

As waited on its downfall, while it took 

The storm-cloud roll'd behind it for a curtain 

To gird its splendors round, and made the blast 

Its minister to whirl its flashing shreds 

Aloft towards heaven, or to the startled depths 

Of forests that afar might share its doom ! 

So shall the royalty of Argos pass 

In festal blaze to darkness. Have ye spoken ? 

AGENOR. 

I speak no more to thee ! — Great Jove look down ! 
[Shouting without.'] 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 87 



ADRASTUS. 

What factious brawl is this ? — disperse it, soldiers. 
[Shouting renewed — As some of the soldiers are about to 

march, PHOCION rushes in, followed by CTESIPHON, 

I 

Ion, and Medon.] 
Whence is this insolent intrusion ? 

PHOCION. 

King ! 
I bear Apollo's answer to thy prayer. 

! 

ADRASTUS. 

Has not thy travel taught thy knee its duty ? 
Here we had school'd thee better. 

PHOCION. 

Kneel to thee ! 

MEDON. 

Patience, my son ! Do homage to the king. 



88 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

PHOCION. 

Never ! — thou talk'st of schooling — know, Adrastus, 

That I have studied in a nobler school 

Than the dull haunt of venal sophistry 

Or the lewd guard-room ; — where the sky extends 

Its arch for all, and mocks the petty span 

Of earth-built palaces and dungeons ; where 

The heart, beneath the meanest vestment, claims 

Alliance with diviner things than state 

Of monarchs or their minions, I have found 

My teachers — and their lessons make me blush 

To see a thousand of my fellows cringe 

Before a creature moulded like themselves 

In all things save in pity and in love. 

ADRASTUS. 

Peace ! speak thy message. 

PHOCION. 

Shall I tell it here? 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

Or shall I seek thy conch at dead of night 
And breathe it in low whispers ? — As thou wilt. 

ADRASTUS. 

Here— and this instant ! 

PHOCION. 

Harken then, Adrastus, 
And harken, Argives — thus Apollo speaks ! 
[Reads a scroll.] 
" Argos ne'er shall find release 
" Till her monarch's race shall cease." 

ADRASTUS. 

'Tis not the god, but man's sedition speaks : — 
Guards ! tear that lying parchment from his hands, 
And bear him to the palace. 

MEDON. 

Touch him not, — 
He is Apollo's messenger, whose lips 



90 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

Were never stain'd with falsehood. 

PHOCION. 

Come on all ! 

AGENOR. 

Surround him, friends ! Die with him ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Soldiers, charge 
Upon these rebels ; hew them down. On, on ! 
The Soldiers advance and surround the people ; they 
seize Phocion. Ion rushes from the back of the 
stage, and throws himself between ADRASTUS and 
Phocion. 

Phocion to ADRASTUS. 
Yet I defy thee. 

ION. 

[To Phocion.] O my friend, forbear; 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 91 

For thy dear father's sake — for sake of all— 

Enrage him not — one moment while I plead — 

[To Adrastus.] My sovereign, pause in thy rash 

course : thou art 
Here upon my entreaty, do not stain 
This sacred place with blood ; in Heaven's great name 
I do conjure thee — and in hers, whose spirit 
Perchance is mourning for thee now ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Release him — 
Let him go spread his treason where he will, 
He is not worth my anger. To the palace ! 

ION. 

Nay, yet an instant ! — let my speech have power 
From Heaven to move thee further : thou hast heard 
The sentence of the god, and thy heart owns it ; 
If thou wilt cast aside this cumbrous pomp, 
And in seclusion purify thy soul 
Long fever'd and sophisticate, the gods 



92 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

May give thee space for penitential thoughts ; 
If not — as surely as thou standest here, 
Wilt thou lie stiff and weltering in thy blood. — 
The vision presses on my soul. 

ADRASTUS. 

Art mad ? 
Resign my state ! Sue to the gods for life, 
The common life which every slave endures, 
And meanly clings to ? No ; within yon walls 
1 shall resume the banquet, never more 
Broken by man's intrusion. Councillors, 
Farewell! — go mutter treason till ye perish ! 

[Exeunt Adrastus, Crythes, and Soldiers. 

Ion, who stands apart leaning on a pedestal. 
'Tis seal'd ! 

MEDON. 

Let us withdraw, and strive 
By sacrifice to pacify the gods ! 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 93 

Me DON, Agenor, and Councillors retire: they leave 
Ctesiphon, Phocion, and Ion. Ion still stands 
apart, as rapt in meditation. 

CTESIPHON. 

Tis well ; the measure of his guilt is fill'd. 
Where shall we meet at sunset ? 

PHOCION. 

In the grove 
Which with its matted shade imbrowns the vale, 
Between those buttresses of rock that guard 
The sacred mountain on its western side, 
Stands a rude altar — overgrown with moss, 
And stain'd with drippings of a million showers, 
So old, that no tradition names the power 
That hallow'd it, — which we will consecrate 
Anew to freedom and to justice. 

CTESIPHON. 

Thither 



94 ■ ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Will I bring friends to meet thee. Shall we speak 

To yon rapt youth ? I pointing to Ion. 

PHOCION. 

His nature is too gentle. 
At sunset we will meet. — With arms ? 

CTESIPHON. 

A knife— 
One sacrificial knife will serve. 

PHOCION. 

A t sunset ! 
[Exeunt Ctesiphon and Phocion severally. 

Ion comes forward. 

ION. 

O wretched man, thy words have seal'd thy doom ! 

Why should I shiver at it, when no way, 

Save this, remains to break the ponderous cloud 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 95 

That hangs above my wretched country ? — death — 

A single death, the common lot of all, 

Which it will not be mine to look upon, — 

And yet its ghastly shape dilates before me ; 

I cannot shut it out; my thoughts grow rigid, 

And as that grim and prostrate figure haunts them, 

My sinews stiffen like it. Courage, Ion ! 

No spectral form is here ; all outward things 

Wear their own old familiar looks ; no dye 

Pollutes them. Yet the air has scent of blood, 

And now it eddies with a hurtling sound, 

As if some weapon swiftly clove it. No — 

The falchion's course is silent as the grave 

That yawns before its victim. Gracious powers ! 

If the great duty of my life be near, 

Grant it may be to suffer, not to strike ! [Exit. 



END OF ACT 



ACT THE THIRD 



ACT III. 
SCENE I. 

A terrace of the Temple. 

CLEMANTHE, ION. 
CLEMANTHE. 

Nay, I must chide this sorrow from thy brow, 
Or 'twill rebuke my happiness ; — I know 
Too well the miseries that hem us round, 
And yet the inward sunshine of my soul, 
Unclouded by their melancholy shadows, 
Bathes in its deep tranquillity one image — 
One only image, which no outward storm 
Can ever ruffle. Let me wean thee, then, 
From this vain pondering o'er the general woe, 
Which makes my joy look ugly. 



100 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

ION. 

No, my fair one, 
The gloom that wrongs thy love is unredeem'd 
By generous sense of others' woe : too sure 
It rises from dark presages within, 
And will not from me. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Then it is most groundless ! 
Hast thou not won the blessings of the perishing 
By constancy, the fame of which shall live 
While a heart beats in Argos ? — hast thou not 
Upon one agitated bosom pour'd 
The sweetest peace ? and can thy generous nature, 
While it thus sheds felicity around it, 
Remain itself unbless'd 1 

ION. 
I fain would think 
That the assured possession of thy love 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 101 

With too divine a freitage weigh'd my heart 

And press'd my spirits down ; — bat 'tis not so ; 

Nor will I with false tenderness beguile thee, 

By feigning that my sadness has a cause 

So exquisite. Clemanthe ! thou wilt find me 

A sad companion ; — I who knew not life, 

Save as the sportive breath of happiness, 

Now feel my minutes teeming, as they rise, 

With grave experiences ; I dream no more 

In sleep or mood serene, of azure fields 

Which rainbow palaces invest, but vaults 

In long succession open till the gloom 

Afar is broken by a streak of fire 

That shapes my name — the moaning wind that creeps 

Prophetic of the tempest whispers it ; 

And as I pass'd but now the solemn range 

Of Argive monarchs, that in sculptured mockery 

Of present empire sit, their eyes of stone 

Bent on me instinct with a frightful life 

That drew me into fellowship with them, 



102 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

As conscious marble ; while their ponderous lips — 
Fit organs of eternity — unclosed, 
And, as I live to tell thee, murmur'd " Hail ! 
Hail ! Ion the Devoted ! " 

CLEMANTHE. 

These are fancies 
Which thy soul, late expanded with great purpose, 
Shapes, as it quivers to its natural circle 
In which its joys should lurk, as in the bud 
The cells of fragrance cluster. Bid them from thee, 
And strive to be thyself. 

ION. 

I will do so ! 
I '11 gaze upon thy loveliness, and drink 
Its quiet in ; — how beautiful thou art ! — 
Sure my pulse throbs as it was wont ; — a being, 
Which owns so fair a glass to mirror it, 
Cannot show darklv. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 103 

CLEMANTHE. 

Happiness will soon 
Revisit us ; my father will rejoice — 
I feel he will, to bless our love ; and Argos 
Will breathe again, for her destroyer s course 
Must have a speedy end. 

ION. 

It must ! It must ! * 

CLEMANTHE. 

Yes ; for no idle talk of public wrongs 
Assails him now ; keen hatred and revenge 
Are roused to crush him. 

ION. 

Not by such base agents 
May the august lustration be achieved : 
He who shall cleanse his country from the guilt 
For which Heaven smites her, should be pure of soul, 



104 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Guileless as infancy, and undisturb'd 

By personal anger as thy father is 

When with unswerving hand and piteous eye 

He stops the brief life of the innocent kid 

Bound with white fillets to the altar ; — so 

Enwreath'd by fate the royal victim stands, 

And soon his breast shall shrink beneath the knife 

Of the selected slayer ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Tis thyself 
Whom thy strange language pictures — Ion ! thou- 

ION. 

She has said it ! Her pure lips have spoken out 
What all things intimate ; — didst thou not mark 
Me for the office of avenger — me ? 

CLEMANTHE. 

No ; — sa ve from the wild picture that thy fancy — 
Thy o'erwrought fancy drew ; I thought it look'd 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 105 

Too like thee, and I shudder'd. 

ion. 

So do I ! 
And yet I almost wish I shudder'd more, 
For the dire thought has grown familiar with me — 
Could I escape it ! 

CLEMANTHE. 
'Twill away in sleep. 

ION. 

No, no ! I dare not sleep — for well I know 
That then the knife will gleam, the blood will gush, 
The form will stiffen ! — I will walk awhile 
In the sweet evening light, and try to chase 
These fearful images away. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Let me 
Go with thee. O, how often hand in hand 



106 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

In such a lovely light have we roam'd westward 
Aimless and blessed, when we were no more 
Than playmates : — surely we are not grown stranger 
Since yesterday ! 

ION. 

No, dearest, not to-night : 
The plague yet rages fiercely in the vale, 
And I am placed in grave commission here 
To watch the gates ; — indeed thou must not pass ; 
I will be merrier when we meet again, — 
Trust me, my love, I will; farewell ! [Exit ion, 

CLEMANTHE. 

Farewell then ! 
How fearful disproportion shows in one 
Whose life hath been all harmony ! I fear 
Some power malignant working on his soul 
May drive him into frenzied act : he bends 
Towards that thick covert where in blessed hour 
My father found him, which has ever been 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 107 

His chosen place of meditation ; thither 

I'll follow him: — indeed I would not grow 

A selfish mistress jealous of his musings ; 

But when dark fancies trouble his clear spirit, 

Sure 'tis my privilege to hover near him ! [Exit. 



108 ION; A TRAGEDY, 



SCENE II. 

An opening in a deep wood — in front an old grey altar. 

Enter Ion. 
ION. 

O winding pathways, o'er whose scanty blades 

Of unaspiring grass mine eyes have bent 

So often when by musing fancy sway'd, 

That craved alliance with no wider scene 

That your fair thickets border'd, but was pleased 

To deem the toilsome years of manhood flown, 

And, on the pictured mellowness of age 

Idly reflective, image my return 

From careful wanderings, to find ye gleam 

With unchanged aspect on a heart unchanged, 

And melt the busy past to a sweet dream 

As then the future was ;— why should ye now 

Echo my steps with melancholy sound 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 109 

As ye were conscious of a guilty presence I 
The lovely light of even that, as it waned 
Touch' d ye with softer, homelier look, now fades 
In dismal blackness ; and yon twisted roots 
Of ancient trees, with whose fantastic forms 
My thoughts grew humorous, look terrible 
As if about to start to serpent life 
And hiss around me ; — whither shall I turn — 
Where fly ? — I see the myrtle-cradled spot 
Where human love instructed by divine 
Found and embraced me first ; I '11 cast me down 
Upon that earth as on a mother's breast, 
In hope to feel myself again a child. 

[Ion goes into the wood. 

Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and ot her Ar give youths. 
CTESIPHON. 

Sure this must be the place that Phocion spoke of;— 
The twilight deepens, yet he does not come. 
O, if instead of idle dreams of freedom, 



110 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

He knew the sharpness of a grief like mine, 
He would not linger thus ! 

CASSANDER. 

The sun's broad disk 
Of misty red, a few brief minutes since, 
Sunk 'neath the leaden wave ; but night steals on 
With rapid pace to veil us, and thy thoughts 
Are eager as the ominous darkness. 

Enter Phocion. 

ctesipjhon. 

Welcome ! 
Thou knowest all here. 

PHOCION. 

Yes ; I rejoice, Cassander, 
To find thee my companion in a deed 
Worthy of all the dreamings of old days, 
When we, two rebel youths, grew safely brave 
In visionary perils. We '11 not shame 



ION; A TRAGEDY. Ill 

Our young imaginations. Ctesiphon, 
We look to thee for guidance in our aim. 

CTESIPHON. 

I bring you glorious news. There is a soldier 
Who, in his reckless boyhood, was my comrade, 
And though by taste of luxury subdued 
Even to brook the tyrant's service, burns 
With generous anger to avenge that grief 
I bear above all others. He has made 
The retribution sure. From him 1 learnt 
That when Adrastus reach'd his palace court, 
He paused, to struggle with some mighty throe 
Of awful passion ; then, as if resolved 
To conquer thought, call'd eagerly for wine, 
And bade his soldiers share his choicest stores, 
And snatch, like him, a day from fortune. Soon 
As one worn out by watching and excess, 
He stagger'd to his couch, where now he lies 
Oppress'd with heavy sleep, while his loose soldiers, 
Made by the fierce carousal vainly mad 



112 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Or grossly dull, are scatter'd through the courts 
Unarm'd and cautionless. The eastern portal 
Is at this moment open ; by that gate 
We all may enter unperceived, and line 
The passages which gird the royal chamber, 
While one sure hand within completes the doom 
Which Heaven pronounces. Nothing now remains, 
But that as all would share this action's glory, 
We join in one great vow, and choose one arm 
Our common minister. O, should my sorrows 
Confer on me the office to return 
Upon the tyrant's shivering heart the blow 
Which crushed my father's spirit, I will leave 
To him who cares for toys — the patriot's laurel 
And the applause of ages ! 

PHOCION. 

Let the gods 
By the old course of lot reveal the name. 
Of the predestined champion. For myself, 
Here do I solemnly devote all powers 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 113 

Of soul and body to that glorious purpose 
We live but to fulfil. 

CTESIPHON. 

And I! 

CASSANDER. 
And I ! 

ION. 

[Who has advanced from the wood, rushes to the altar 

and exclaims'] 
And I! 

PHOCION. 

Ion ! thou art most welcome ; sure the gods 
In prompting thy unspotted soul to join 
Our bloody councils, sanctify and bless them ! 

ION. 

Yes ; they have prompted me ; for they have given 

H 



114 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

One dreadful voice to all things which should be 
Else dumb or musical ; and I rejoice 
To step from the grim round of waking dreams 
Into a fellowship which makes all clear. 
Wilt trust me, Ctesiphon ? 

CTESIPHON. 

Yes ; but we waste 
The precious minutes in vain talk ; if lots 
Must guide us, have ye scrolls ? 

PHOCION. 

Cassander has them ; 
The flickering light of yonder glade will serve him 
To inscribe them with our names. Be quick, Cassander ! 

CTESIPHON. 

I wear a casque, beneath whose iron circlet 
My father's dark hairs whiten'd ; let it hold 
The names of his avengers ! 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 115 

[Ctesiphon takes off his helmet and gives it to Cassander, 
who retires with it.] 

phocion [to Ctesiphon]. 
He whose name 
Thou shalt draw first shall fill the post of glory. 
Were it not also well the second name 
Should designate another charged to take 
The same great office, if the first should leave 
His work imperfect. 

CTESIPHON. 

There can scarce be need ; 
Yet as thou wilt. May the first chance be mine ; 
I will leave little for a second arm ! 

[Cassander returns with the helmet. 

CTESIPHON. 

Now gods decide ! 

[Ctesiphon draws a lot from the helmet. 



116 ION; A TRAGEDY. 



PHOCION. 

The name ? Why dost thou pause ? 

CTESIPHON. 



Tis Ion ! 



ION. 

Well, I knew it would be mine ! 

[Ctesiphon draws another lot. 

CTESIPHON. 

Phocion ! it will be thine to strike him dead 
If he should prove faint-hearted. 

PHOCION. 

With my life 
I '11 answer for his constancy. 

ctesiphon. [to Ion, 

Thy hand ! 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 117 

Tis cold as death. 

ION. 
Yes ; but it is as firm. 
What ceremony next I 
[Ctesiphon leads Ion to the altar and gives him a knife. 

CTESIPHON. 

Receive this steel 
For ages dedicate in my sad home 
To sacrificial uses ; grasp it nobly, 
And consecrate it to untrembling service 
Against the king of Argos and his race. 

ION. 

His race ! Is he not left alone on earth ? 
He hath no brother and no child. 

CTESIPHON. 

Such words 
The god hath used who never speaks in vain. 



118 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

PHOCION. 

There were old rumours of an infant born 
And strangely vanishing ; — a tale of guilt 
Half-hush'd, perchance distorted in the hushing, 
And by the wise scarce heeded, for they deem'd it 
One of a thousand guilty histories 
Which, if the walls of palaces could speak, 
Would show that nursed by prideful luxury, 
To pamper which the virtuous peasant toils, 
Crimes grow unpunish'd which the pirates' nest, 
Or want's foul hovel, or the cell which Justice 
Keeps for unlicensed guilt would startle at ! 
We must root out the stock that no stray scion 
Renew the tree whose branches, stifling virtue, 
Shed poison-dews on joy. 

[Ion approaches the altar, and, lifting up the knife, speaks. 

Ye eldest gods, 
Who in no statues of exactest form 
Are palpable; who shun the azure heights 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 119 

Of beautiful Olympus and the sound 

Of ever-young Apollo's minstrelsy; 

Yet, mindful of the empire which ye held 

Over dim Chaos, keep revengeful watch 

On falling nations, and on kingly lines 

About to sink for ever ; ye, who shed 

Into the passions of earth's giant brood 

And their fierce usages the sense of Justice ; 

Who clothe the fated battlements of tyranny 

With blackness as a funeral pall, and breathe 

Through the proud halls of time-embolden'd guilt 

Portents of ruin, hear me ! — In your presence, 

For now I feel ye nigh — I dedicate 

This arm to the destruction of the king 

And of his race ! O keep me pityless, 

Expel all human weakness from my frame, 

That this keen weapon shake not when his heart 

Should feel its point ; and if he has a child 

Whose blood is needful to the sacrifice 

My country asks, harden my soul to shed it ! — 

Was not that thunder ? 



120 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

CTESIPHON. 

No ; I heard no sound. 
Nbw mark me, Ion ! — thou shalt straight be led 
To the king's chamber ; we shall be at hand ; 
Nothing can give thee pause. Hold ! one should watch 
The city's eastern portal, lest the troops 
Returning from the work of plunder home 
Surround us unprepared. Be that thy duty. 

[To Phocion, 

P HOCION. 

I am to second Ion if he fail. 

CTESIPHON. 

He cannot fail ; — I shall be nigh. What, Ion ! 

ION. 

Who spake to me ? Where am I ? Friends, your pardon : 
I am prepared ; yet grant me for a moment, 
Only a moment, to be left alone. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 121 

CTESIPHON. 

Be brief then, or the season of revenge 

Will pass. At yonder thicket we '11 expect thee. 

[Exeunt all but Ion. 

ion. 
Methinks I breathe more freely, now my lot 
Is palpable, and mortals gird me round, 
Though my soul owns no sympathy with theirs. 
Some one approaches — I must hide this knife — 
Hide ! I have ne'er till now had ought to hide 
From any human eye. [He conceals the knife in his vest. 

Enter Clemanthe. 
Clemanthe here ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Forgive me that I break upon thee thus ; 
I meant to watch thy steps unseen ; but night 
Is thickening ; thou art haunted by sad fancies, 



122 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

And 'tis more terrible to think upon thee 
Wandering with such companions in thy bosom, 
Than in the peril thou art wont to seek 
Beside the bed of death. 

ION. 

Death, sayest thou ? Death I 
Is it not righteous when the gods decree it? 
And brief its sharpest agony ? Yet, fairest, 
It is no theme for thee. Prithee go in, 
And think of it no more. 

CLEM AN THE. 

Not without thee. 
Indeed thou art not well ; thy hands are marble, 
Thy eyes are fix'd ; let me support thee, love, — 
Ha ! what is that gleaming within thy vest ? 
A knife ! Tell me its purpose, Ion ! 

ION. 

No; 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 123 

My oath forbids. 

CLEMANTHE. 

An oath ! O gentle Ion, 
What can have link'd thee to a cause which needs 
A stronger cement than a good man's word ! 
Hast not install'd me in thy soul's high palace, 
And wilt thou keep one churlish corner from me? 

ION. 
Alas, I must. Thou wilt know all full soon — 

[Voices call Ion !] 
Hark, I am call'd ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Nay, do not leave me thus. 

ION. 
Tis very sad [voices again] — I dare not stay — farewell ! 

[Exit, 



124 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

CLEMANTHE. 

It must be to Adrastus that he hastes ! 

'Tis fit the tyrant die, but not by him ; 

For black remembrance of the deed will hang 

Upon his delicate spirit like a cloud, 

And tinge its world of happy images 

With hues of horror. Shall I to the palace, 

And, as the price of my disclosure, claim 

His safety ? No ! — 'Tis never woman's part 

Out of her fond misgivings to perplex 

The fortunes of the man to whom she cleaves ; 

'Tis hers to weave all that she has of fair 

And bright in the dark meshes of their web 

Inseparate from their windings. My poor heart 

Hath found its refuge in a hero's love, 

Whatever destiny his generous soul 

Shape for him ; — 'tis its duty to be still, 

And trust him till it bound or break with his. [Exit, 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 125 

SCENE III. 

A chamber in the Temple. 
Enter Medon, followed by Abra. 

MEDON. 

My daughter not within the temple, sayst thou ? 
Abroad at such an hour ? Sure not alone 
She wander'd : tell me truly, did not Phocion 
Or Ion bear her company ? 'twas Ion — 
Confess ; — was it not he 1 I shall not chide, 
Indeed I shall not. 

ABRA. 

She went forth alone ; 
But it is true that Ion just before 
Had taken the same path. 

MEDON. 

It was to meet him. 



126 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

I would they were return'd ; the night is grown 
Of an unusual blackness. Some one comes — 
Look if it be my daughter. 

Abra looking out. 

No ; young Irus, 
The little slave, whose pretty tale of grief 
Agenor, with so gracious a respect, 
This morning told us. 

MEDON. 

Let him come ; he bears 
Some message from his master. 

Enter Irus. 
Medon to Irus. 

Thou art pale ; 
Has any evil happened to Agenor ? 

IRUS. 

No, my good lord, I do not come from him ; 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 127 

I bear to thee a scroll from one who now 

Is number' d with the dead ; an humble man, 

Who was the last akin to me on earth, 

But whom I never saw until he lay 

Upon his deathbed ; he had left these shores 

Long before I was born, and no one knew 

His place of exile ; — on this mournful day 

He landed, was plague-stricken, and expired. 

My gentle master gave me leave to tend 

His else unsolaced death-bed ; — when he found 

The clammy chilness of the grave steal on, 

He call'd for parchment, and with trembling hand, 

That seem'd to gather firmness from its task, 

Wrote earnestly ; conjured me take the scroll 

Instant to thee ; and died. 

[Irus gives a scroll to Med on. 

Med on reading the scroll. 

These are high tidings. 
Abra ! is not Clemanthe come ? I long 
To tell her all. 



128 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Enter Clemanthe. 

MEDON. 

Sit down, my pensive child. 
Abra, this boy is faint, see him refresh'd 
With food and wine before he quit the temple. 

IRUS. 

I have too long been absent from Agenor, 
Who needs my slender help. 

MEDON. 

Nay, I will use 
Thy master's firmness here, and use it so 
As he would use it. Keep him prisoner, Abra, 
Till he has done my bidding. 

[Exeunt Abra and Irus. 
Now, Clemanthe, 
Though thou hast play'd the truant and the rebel, 
I will not be severe in my award 
By keeping from thee news of one to thee 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 129 

Most dear — nay, do not blush — I say most dear. 

CLEMANTHE. 
It is of Ion ; — no — I do not blush, 
But tremble. O my father, what of Ion? 

MEDON. 

How often have we guess'd his lineage noble ! 
And now 'tis proved. The uncle of that youth 
Was with another hired to murder him 
A babe ; — they tore him from his mother's breast, 
And to a sea-girt summit, where a rock 
O'erhung a chasm by the surge's force 
Made terrible, rush'd with him. As the gods 
In mercy order'd it, the foremost ruffian 
Who bore no burden, pressing through the gloom 
In the wild hurry of his guilty purpose, 
Trod at the extreme verge upon a crag 
Loosen'd by summer from its granite bed, 
And suddenly fell with it; — with his fall 
Sunk the base daring of the man who held 

I 



130 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

The infant ; so he placed the unconscious babe 
Upon the spot where it was found by me ; 
"Watch'd till he saw the infant safe ; then fled, 
Fearful of question ; and returned to die. 
That child is Ion; whom do'st guess his sire? 
The first in Argos. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Dost thou mean Adrastus? 
He cannot — must not — be that tyrant's son ! 

ME DON. 

It is most certain. Nay, my thankless girl, 

He hath no touch of his rash father's pride, 

For Nature, from whose genial lap he smiled 

Upon us first, hath moulded for her own 

The suppliant of her bounty. I have read 

His inmost spirit from that hour, and feel 

No change will make him tyrant to the state, 

Or traitor to his love ; — thou art bless'd, Clemanthe- 

Thus, let me bid thee joy. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 131 

CLEMANTHE. 

Joy, sayst thou — joy ! 
Then I must speak — he seeks Adrastus' life ; 
And at this moment, while we talk, may stain 
His soul with parricide. 

MEDON. 

Impossible ! 
Ion, the gentlest 

CLEMANTHE. 
It is true, my father ; 
I saw the weapon gleaming in his vest ; 
I heard him call'd ! 

MEDON. 

Shall I alarm the palace ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

No ; in the fierce confusion, he would fall 
Before our tale could be his safeguard. Gods ! 



132 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Is there no hope, no refuge ? 

MEDON. 

Yes, if Heaven 
Assist us. I bethink me of a passage 
Which, fashion'd by a king in pious zeal, 
That he might seek the altar of the god 
In secret, from the temple's inmost shrine 
Leads to the royal chamber. I have track'd it 
In youth for pastime. Could I thread it now, 
I yet might save him. 

CLEMANTHE. 

O make haste, my father ; 
Shall I attend thee I 

MEDON. 

No ; thou wouldst impede 
My steps ; — thou art fainting; when I have lodged thee safe 
In thy own chamber, I will light the torch 
And instantly set forward. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 133 

CLEMANTHE. 

Do not waste 
An instant's space on me ; — speed, speed, my father — 
The fatal moments fly ; I need no aid ; — 
Thou seest I am calm, quite calm. 

ME DON. 

The gods protect thee ! 
[Exeunt severally. 



END OF ACT III. 



ACT THE FOURTH. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE I. 

The Royal Chamber. Adrastus on a couch asleep. 
Enter Ion with the knife. 

ION. 

Why do I creep thus stealthily along 

With thief-like steps ? Am I not arm'd by Heaven 

To execute its justice on a life 

Above the reach of mortal law ? And now, 

Call'd to this awful duty, shall I shrink, 

While every moment that it lasts may crush 

Some life else happy? — May I be deceived, 

Lured by the specious form of noble daring, 

Which some foul passion, crouching in my soul. 



138 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Roused from long ambush, borrows to undo me ? 
Assure me, gods ! — Yes ; I have heard j T our voices 
Aright, for I dare pray ye to look down 
And see me stab ! [He goes to the couch. 

He 's smiling in his slumber, 
As if some happy thought of innocent days 
Play'd at his heartstrings : must I scare it thence 
With mortal agonies ? This pity y s selfish : 
Be firm, my soul ! — Yet I '11 not filch his life 
Thus while he sleeps : he is a culprit doom'd 
By the high judgment of supernal Powers, 
And he shall know their sentence. Wake, Adrastus ! 
Collect thy spirits, and be strong to die ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Who dares disturb my rest ? Guards ! Soldiers ! 

Recreants ! 
Where tarry ye ? Why smite ye not to earth 
This bold intruder ? — Ha ! no weapon here ! — 
What wouldst thou with me, ruffian ? [Rising. 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 139 

ION. 

I am none, 
But a sure instrument in Jove's great hand 
To take thy forfeit life ; — so make thee ready ; 
Thy hour is come ! 

ADRASTUS. 

Villains ! does no one hear ? 



ION. 

Vex not the closing minutes of thy being 
With torturing hope or idle rage ; thy guards, 
Palsied with revelry, are scatter'd senseless, 
While the most valiant of our Argive youths 
Hold every passage by which human aid 
Could reach thee. Thou art doom'd to present death 
By Powers above thy state, and I am sent 
To execute their pleasure. 



140 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

ADRASTUS. 

Thou! — I know thee— 
The youth I spared this morning, in whose ear 
I pour'd the secrets of my bosom. Kill me, 
If thou darest do it, but bethink thee first 
How the grim memory of thy thankless deed 
Will haunt thee to the grave ! 

ION. 
It is most true ; 
Thou sparedst my life, and therefore do the gods 
Ordain me to this office, lest thy fall 
Seem the chance forfeit of some single sin, 
And not the great redress of Argos. Nature, 
The human nature thou hast vex'd and scofFd at, 
Cries out to Heaven against thee — Heaven attends, 
And answers it by me ! I shall perform 
Its bidding firmly, yet with such sad grace 
As the law's minister to common men 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 141 

Is privileged to show. If there is one 

Whom dying thou wouldst greet by word or token, 

Speak, and believe it done. 

ADRASTUS. 

I have no friend ; 
If thou hast courage, strike ! 

TON. 

Without a friend ! 
Most lonely man ! 

ADRASTUS. 
Ha ! thou art melted ! 

ION. 

Hope not 
Aught from my weak reluctance ; should I spare thee, 
My comrades will be masters of our lives, 
And we shall fall together. Be it so ! 



142 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

ADRASTUS. 
Never ; I '11 yield to thee alone ; dispatch ! 
I recognise in thee Jove's minister, 
And, kneeling thus, submit me to his power. 

[Adrastus kneels. 

ION. 

Avert thy face. 

ADRASTUS. 
No ; let me meet thy gaze ; 
For breathing pity lights thy features up 
Into more awful likeness of a form 
Which once shone on me ;■ — and which now my sense 
Shapes palpable — in habit of the grave, 
Inviting me to the lone shore where night 
Shall compass us ; — 'tis surely there ; — she waves 
Her pallid hand in circle o'er thy head, 
As if to bless thee — and I bless thee too, 
Death's gracious angel ! — Do not turn away. 






ION; A TRAGEDY. 143 

ION. 

Gods ! to what office have ye doom'd me ; — now ! 

[Ion raises his arm to stab Adrastus, who is kneeling, 
and gazes steadfastly upon him. The voice o/*Medon 
is heard without, calling Ion! Ion! — Ion drops his 
arrnJ] 

ADRASTUS. 

Be quick, or thou art lost ! 

[As Ion has again raised his arm to strike, Medon 

rushes in behind hi?n.~\ 

i 

MEDON. 

Ion, forbear ! 
Behold thy son, Adrastus ! 

[Ion stands for a moment stupified with horror, drops 
the knife, and falls senseless on the ground.] 

ADRASTUS. 

What strange words 



144 . ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Are these which call my senses from the death 
They were composed to welcome. Son ! 'tis false — 
I had but one, and the deep wave rolls o'er him ! 

MEDON. 

That wave received, instead of the fair nurseling, 
One of the slaves who bore him from thy sight 
In wicked haste to slay ; — I '11 give thee proofs. 

ADRASTUS. 

Great Jove, I thank thee ! — raise him gently — proofs ! 

Are there not here the lineaments of her 

Who made me happy once — the voice, now still, 

That bade the long-seaPd fount of love gush out, 

While with a prince's constancy he came 

To lay his noble life down ; and the last, 

The dreadful, certain proof, that he whose frame 

Is instinct with her spirit, stood above me, 

Arm'd for the traitor's deed ! — It is my child ! 

[Ion reviving, sinks on one knee before Adrastus] 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 145 

ION. 
Father ! [Noise without.] 

MEDON. 

The clang of arms ! 

Ton. [Starting up.] 

They come ! they come ! 
They who are leagued with me against thy life. 
Here let us fall ! 

ADRASTUS. 
I will confront them yet ; 
"Within I have a weapon # which has drank 
A traitor's blood ere now ; — there will I wait them : 
Come — nought but death shall separate us more. 

[Exeunt Adrastus and Ion as to an inner chamber. 

MEDON. 

Have mercy on him, gods, for the dear sake 

K 



14(> ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Of your most single-hearted worshipper ! 

Enter Ctesiphon, Cassander, and others. 

CTESIPHON. 

What treachery is this — the tyrant fled, 

And Ion fled too ! — Comrades., stay this dotard 

While I search yonder chamber. 

MEDON. 

Spare him, friends, — 
O let him live to clasp his new-found son ; 
Spare him as Ion's father ! 

CTESIPHON. 

Father ! yes — 
That is indeed a name to bid me spare; — 
Let me but find him, gods ! 

[ He rushes into the inner chamber. 

Medon. [To Cassander and the others.'] 
Had ve but seen 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 147 

What I have witness'd, ye would weep with him. 

Crythes enters with soldiers. 
Ha, Crythes ! hasten to defend your master ; 

That way 

[As Crythes is about to enter the inner chamber, 

Ctesiphon rushes from it with a bloody dagger and 

stops them.~\ 

CTESIPHON. 

It is accomplish'd ; the foul blot 
Is wiped away. Stern shadow of my father, 
Look on thy son, and smile ! 

CRYTHES. 

Whose blood is that ? 
It cannot be the king's ! 

CTESIPHON. 

It cannot be ? » 
Think'st, thou foul minion of a tyrant's will, 



148 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

He was to crush, and thou to crawl for ever? 
Look there, and tremble ! 

CRYTHES. 

Wretch! thy life shall pay 
The forfeit of thy deed. 

[Crythes and soldiers seize Ctesiphon. 

[Enter Adrastus mortally wounded, supported by Ion.] 
ADRASTUS. 

Here let me rest, — 
In this old chamber did my life begin, 
And here I '11 end it : Crythes ! thou hast timed 
Thy visit well, to bring thy soldiers hither 
To gaze upon my parting. 

CRYTHES. 

To avenge thee ; — 
Here is the murderous traitor ! 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 149 

ADRASTUS. 

Set him free. — 
Why do ye not obey me ? Ctesiphon, 
Thou hadst just cause for this ;— my death is sure ; 
And as thou hast requited me, I sue 
For a small boon — let me not see thee more. 

CTESIPHON. 

Farewell! [Exit Ctesiphon. 

Adrastus [to Crythes and the soldiers.] 
Why do ye tarry here ? 
Begone ! — still do ye hover round my couch I 
If the commandment of a dying king 
Is feeble, as a man who has embraced 
His child for the first time since infancy, 
And presently must part with him for ever, 
I do adjure ye leave us! 

[Exeunt all but Ion and Adrastus. 



150 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

ION. 

O my father, 
How is it with thee now ? 

ADRASTUS. 

Well ; very well ; — 
Avenging Fate hath spent its utmost force 
Against me ; and I gaze upon my son 
With the sweet certainty that nought can part us 
Till all is quiet here. How like a dream 
Seems the succession of my regal pomps 
Since I embraced thy helplessness ! To me 
The interval hath been a weary one ; 
How hath it pass'd with thee ? 

ION. 

But that my heart 
Hath sometimes ached for the sweet sense of kindred, 
I had enjoy'd a round of happy years 
As cherish'd youth e'er knew. 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 151 

ADRASTUS. 

I bless the gods 
That they have strewn along thy humble path 
Delights unblamed ; and in this hour I seem 
Even as I had lived so ; and I feel 
That I shall live in thee, unless that curse — 

if it should survive me ! 

ION. 

Think not of it ; 
The gods have shed such sweetness in this moment, 
That, howsoever they deal with me hereafter, 

1 shall not deem them angry. Let me call 
For help to staunch thy wound ; thou art strong yet, 
And yet may live to bless me. 

ADRASTUS. 

Do not stir ; 
My strength is ebbing fast, yet as it leaves me 
The spirit of my stainless days of love 



152 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

Awakens ; and their images of joy, 

Which at thy voice started from blank oblivion, 

When thou wert strange to me, and then half-shown 

Look'd sadly through the mist of guilty years, 

Now glimmer on me in the lovely light 

Which at thy age they wore. Thou art all thy mother's, 

Her elements of gentleness enshrined 

In an heroic casing. 

ION. 
Thou art faint ; 
Can I do nothing for thee I 

ADRASTUS. 

Yes ; — my son, 
Thou art the best, the bravest, of a race 
Of rightful monarchs ; thou must mount the throne 
Thy ancestors have fill'd, and by thy goodness 
Efface the memory of thy fated sire, 
And win the blessing of tfie gods for men 
Stricken for him. Swear to me thou wilt do this, 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 153 

And I shall die forgiven. 

ION. 

I will. 

ADRASTUS. 

Rejoice, 
Sufferers of Argos ! I am growing- weak, 
And my eyes dazzle ; let me rest my hands, 
Ere they have lost their feeling, on thy head. — 
So ! So ! — thy hair is glossy to the touch 
As when I last enwreath'd its tiny curl 
About my finger ; I did image then 
Thy reign succeeding mine ; and now I die 
Contented as I hail thee king of Argos ! [Dies, 

ION. 

He 's dead ! and I am fatherless again. — 
King did he hail me 1 shall I make that word 
A spell to bid old happiness awake 
Throughout the lovely land that father'd me 



154 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

In my forsaken childhood ? 

[He sees the knife on the ground, and takes it up. 
Most vain dream ! 
This austere monitor hath bid thee vanish 
Ere half reveal'd. Come back, thou truant steel ; 
Half of thy work the gods absolved thee from, 
The rest remains ! Lie there ! 
[He puts the knife in his bosom. Shouts heard ivithoui. 

The voice of joy ! 
Is this thy funeral wailing ? O my father ! 
Mournful and brief will be the heritage 
Thou leavest me ; yet I promised thee in death 
To grasp it ; — and I will embrace it now. 

Enter ^genor and others. 

AGENOR. 

Does the king live ? 

ION. 

Alas ! in me. The son 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 155 

Of him whose princely spirit is at rest, 
Claims his ancestral honours. 

AGENOR. 

The high thought 
Anticipates the prayer of Argos roused 
To sudden joy. The sages wait without 
To greet thee ; — wilt confer with them to-night 
Or wait the morning ? 

ION. 

Now ; — the city's state 
Allows the past no sorrow. I attend them. [Exeunt, 



156 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

SCENE II. 

[Before the gate of the city.~\ 
[Phocion on guard.'] 

PHOCION. 

Fool that I was to take this idle office 
At most inglorious distance from the scene 
Which shall be freedom's birth-place; to endure 
The phantasies of danger which the soul 
Uncheer'd by action coldly dallies with 
Till it begins to shiver ! Long ere this, 
If Ion's hand be firm, the deed is past, 
And yet no shout announces that the bonds 
Of tyranny are broken. [Shouts at distance. 

Hark ! 'tis done ! — 

Enter Ctesiphon. 
All hail, my brother freeman ! — is 't not so ? — 
Thy looks are haggard — is the tyrant slain ? 






ION; A TRAGEDY. 157 

Is liberty achieved ? 

CTESIPHON. 
The king is dead ; 
This arm, — I bless the vengeful Furies ! — slew him. 

PHOCION. 

Did Ion quail then ? 

CTESIPHON. 

Ion ! — clothe thy speech 
In phrase more courtly ; he is king of Argos, 
Accepted as the tyrant's long-lost son, 
And in his person still the murderer reigns. 

PHOCION. 
It cannot be ; I can believe his birth 
Is royal, 3'et I know he will prefer 
His own internal treasury of sweet thoughts 
To all the frigid glories that invest 



158 I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 

The loveless state in which the monarch dwells 

A terror and a slave. [Shouts again. 

CTESIPHON. 

Dost hear that shout ? 
'Tis raised for him ! — the craven fools rejoice 
To welcome a new master — the loose soldiers 
From the base instinct of their slavish trade 
Which must be deck'd and master'd ; the slight people 
In hunger for a holiday ; the elders 
Confounded by the wisdom of his speech ; 
Join in one prayer that he would set his foot 
Upon their necks, and he is pleased to grant it. 

PHOCION. 

He shall not grant it ! If my life, my sense, 
My heart's affections and my tongue's free scope 
Wait the dominion of a mortal will, 
What is the sound to me — whether my soul 
Bears u Ion" or " Adrastus" burnt within it 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 159 

As my soul's owner 1 One, in cruel whim, 

May shape new tortures for my quivering nerves, 

Or strain my sinews to beguile an hour ; 

The other may be gracious in caprice, 

And from the store great nature gave to all men 

Dole out small bounties to adoring slaves ; 

If I must choose, give me the honest tyrant, 

Whom in my dungeon I am free to curse, 

Whose bounties seek not to immesh the soul, 

And claim it his accomplice ! Ion, king — 

Never ; I '11 reason with his guileless heart, 

Which has not known a selfish impulse yet, 

And thou shalt see him smile this greatness from him. 

CTESIPHON. 

Go teach the eagle when in azure heaven 
He upward darts to seize his madden'd prey, 
Shivering through the death-circle of its fear, 
To pause and let it 'scape, and thou mayst win 
Man to forego the sparkling round of power, 
When it floats airily within his grasp. 



160 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

PHOCION. 
Why dost thou argue this so sternly ? thou 
Carest not for general wrongs ; and thy own grief 
Is well avenged. 

CTESIPHON. 

Not while the son of him 
Who smote my father reigns. I little guess'd 
Thou wouldst require a prompter to awake 
The memory of the oath of yesterday, 
Or of the place assign'd to thee by lot, 
Should our first champion fail to crush the race — 
Mark me ! — " the race " of him my arm has dealt with. 
Now is the time ; the palace all confused, 
And the prince dizzy with strange turns of fortune 
To do thy part. 

PHOCTON. 

Have mercy on my weakness ! 
If thou hadst known this youth as I have known him, 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 161 

One of the same small household which he cheer'd 

With cloudless mirth ; — vex'd him a thousand times, 

And never felt the chiding of a glance; 

Seen him anticipate thy wayward wishes 

As by sweet instinct, and o'ertax his strength 

To gratify them — if thou hast been stretch' d 

Long weeks upon a couch of agony, 

And felt the blessing of his gentle care, 

Thou couldst not do it. — Hear me, Ctesiphon! — 

I had a deadly fever once, and slaves 

Shrunk trembling — he watch'd o'er me with patience 

Which seem'd to draw enjoyment from its use, 

And soothed my dull ear with discourse so sweet, 

That lovely fancies throng'd about my soul, 

And my sad room became a place enchanted, 

Its darkness swarming with delightful shapes, 

That almost stole away the sense of pain ; — 

And canst thou bid me slay him now X 

CTESIPHON. 

The task 



162 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

Be mine. Thou wilt not play the traitor with me ? 

[going. 

PHOCION. 

Hold ! If the compact of our dreadful league 
Require that he should fall, I will not wait 
At distance ; — since my thought must be his stabber, 
My arm shall not be absent. 

CTESIPHON. 

Thou wilt find him, 
Haply upon the terrace and alone ; 
But hasten. 

PHOCION. 

O fear not that I should bear 
The prospect of so sad an office long. 

CTESIPHON. 

That done, I '11 meet thee at the temple. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 163 

PHOCION. 

Well! 
All places will be then alike to me. [Exeunt severally. 



164 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 



SCENE III. 

[A Terrace in the Garden of the Palace by moonlight.'] 
[Enter Ion and Agenor.] 

AGENOR. 

Wilt thou not in to rest ? 

ION. 

My rest is here — ■ 
For rising from the shocks of circumstance, 
My soul, in presence of the starry heavens, 
Can feel the littleness of earthly change 
And bear its fortunes tranquilly. Yet age 
Requires more genial nourishment — pray seek it — 
I will but stay thee to inquire once more 
If any symptom of returning health 
Bless the wan city ? 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 165 

AGENOR. 

No — the perishing 
Lift up their painful heads to bless thy name, 
And their eyes kindle as they utter it ; 
But still they perish. 

ION. 

So ! — give instant order, 
The rites which shall confirm me in my throne 
Be solemnized to-morrow. 

AGENOR. 

How ! so soon, 
While the more sacred duties to the dead 
Remain unpaid ? 

ION. 

Let them abide my time — 
They will not tarry long. I see thee gaze 
With wonder on me— do my bidding now, 



166 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

And trust me till to-morrow. Pray go in, 
The night will chill thee else. 



AGENOR. 

Farewell, my lord ! [Exit. 



ION. 

Now all is stillness in my breast — how soon 
To be displaced by more profound repose, 
In which no thread of consciousness shall live 
To feel how calm it is ! — O lamp serene, 
Do I lift up to thee undazzled eyes 
For the last time ? Shall I enjoy no more 
Thy golden haziness which seem'd akin 
To my young fortune's dim felicity ? 
And when it coldly shall embrace the urn 
That shall contain my ashes, will not one 
Of all the fancies cherish'd by thy beams 
Awake to tremble with them 1 Vain regret ! 
The pathway of my duty lies in sunlight, 
And I would tread it with as firm a step, 



I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 167 

Though it should terminate in cold oblivion, 
As if Elysian pleasures at its close 
Gleam'd palpable to sight as things of earth. 
Who passes there ? 

Enter Phocion behind, who strikes at Ion with a 

dagger. 

PHOCION. 

This to the king of Argos. 
[Ion struggles with him, seizes the dagger, which he 
throws away.] 

ION. 

I will not fall by thee, poor wavering novice 
In the assassin's trade ! — thy arm is feeble — 

[He confronts Phocion. 
Phocion ! — was this well aim'd ? thou didst not mean — 

PHOCION. 

I meant to take thy life, urged by remembrance 



168 ION; A TRAGEDY, 

Of yesterday's great vow. 

ION. 

And couldst thou think 
I had forgotten I 

PHOCION. 

Thou! 

ION. 

Couldst thou believe 
That one whose nature had been arm'd to stop 
The life-blood's current in a fellow's veins 
Would hesitate when gentler duty turn'd 
His steel to nearer use ? To-morrow's dawi 
Shall see me wield the sceptre of our line ; 
Come, watch beside my throne, and, if I fail 
In sternest duty which my country needs, 
My bosom will be open to thy dagger 
As now to thy embrace ! 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 169 



PHOCION. 

Thus let me fall 
Low at thy feet, and kneeling here receive 
Forgiveness ; do not crush with more love 
Than lies in the word " pardon." 

ION. 

And that word 
I will not speak ; — what have I to forgive 1 
A devious fancy, and a muscle raised 
Obedient to its impulse ! Dost thou think 
That in this moment's error are effaced 
The tracings of a thousand kindnesses 
Which taught me all I guess'd of brotherhood ? 

PHOCION. 

I cannot look upon thee ; let me go 
And lose myself in darkness. 



170 ION; A TRAGEDY". 

ION. 

Nay, old playmate, 
We part Dot thus — the duties of my state 
Will shortly end our fellowship ; but spend 
A few glad minutes wi th me. Dost remember 
How in a night like this we climb'd yon walls 
Two vagrant urchins, and with tremulous joy 
Skimm'd through these statue-border'd walks that gleam'd 
In bright succession ? Let us tread them now ; 
And think we are but older by a day, 
And that the pleasant walk of yesternight 
We are to-night retracing. Come, my friend ! — 
What drooping yet — thou wert not wont to seem 
So stubborn — cheerily, my Phocion — come ! [Exeunt, 



END OF ACT IV. 



ACT THE FIFTH, 



ACT V. 
SCENE I. 

TIME. — THE MORNING OF THE SECOND DAY. 

[The Terrace of the Palace.'] 

[Two Soldiers on guard. ,] 

1 SOLDIER. 

A stirring season, comrade ! our new prince 

Has leap'd as eagerly into his seat 

As he had languish'd an expectant heir 

Weary of nature's kindness to old age. 

He was esteem'd a modest stripling ; — strange 

That he should, with unusual hurry, seize 

The gaudy shows of power. 

2 SOLDIER. 

'Tis honest nature ; 



174 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

The royal instinct was but smouldering in him, 
And now it blazes forth. I pray the gods 
He may not give us cause to mourn his sire. 

1 SOLDIER. 

No more ; he comes. 

[Enter Ion.] 

ION. 
Why do ye loiter here ? 
Are all the statues deck'd with festal wreaths 
As I commanded ? 

1 SOLDIER. 

We have been on guard 
Here by Agenor's order since the nightfall. 

ION. 

On guard ! Well, hasten now and see it done ; 

I need no guards. [Exeunt Soldiers. 



I O N ; A T R A G E I) Y. 175 

The awful hour draws near ; 
I am composed to meet it. — Phocion comes. 
His presence, once so welcome, will unman me, 
And yet I must not vex his generous soul 
With thought that he has ruffled mine. 

[Enter Phocion.] 

Good morrow ! 
Thou play'st the courtier early. 

PHOCION. 

Canst thou speak 
In that old tone of common cheerfulness, 
That falsely promises delightful years, 
And hold thy mournful purpose ? 

ION. 

I have drawn 
From the selectest fountain of repose 
A blessed calm ; — when I lay down to rest 
I fear'd lest bright remembrances of childhood 



176 I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 

Should with untimely visitation mock me ; 

But I have slept a deep and dreamless slumber, 

And rose refresh'd ; if sight of thee revives 

Too thrilling images of joyous life, 

Yet think not that I blame the love that wakes them. 

PHOCION. 

O cherish them, and let them plead with thee 

To grant my prayer, — that thou wouldst live for Argos, 

Not die for her ; — thy gracious life shall win 

More than thy death the favour of the gods, 

And charm the marble aspect of grim fate 

Into a blessed change ; I, who am vow'd, 

And who so late was arm'd fate's minister, 

Implore thee ! 

ION. 

Speak to me no more of life ; 
There is a dearer name that I would utter—- 
Thou understand'st me — 



I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 177 



Enter Agenor. 

AGENOR. 

Thou bast forgot to name 
Who shall be bidden to this evening's feast ? 

ION. 

The feast ! — most true ; I had forgotten it. 
Bid whom thou wilt ; but let there be large store, 
If our sad walls contain it, for the wretched 
Whom hunger palsies. It may be few else 
Will taste it with a relish. [Exit Agenor. 

[Ion resumes his address to Phocion, and continues it, 
broken by the interruptions which follow .~\ 
I would speak 
A word of her who yester-morning rose 
To her light duties with as blithe a heart 
As ever yet its equal beating veil'd 
In moveless alabaster ; — plighted now, 
In liberal hour, to one whose destiny 

M 



178 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Shall freeze the sources of enjoyment in it, 
And make it heavy with the life-long pang 
A widow'd spirit bears ! — 



Enter Cleon. 

cleon. 
The heralds wait 
To learn tjie hour at which the solemn games 
Shall be proclaim'd. 

ION. 

The games ! — yes, I remember 
That sorrow's darkest pageantries give place 
To youth's robustest pastimes — death and life 
Embracing : — at the hour of noon. 

CLEON. 

The wrestlers 
Pray thee to crown the victor. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 179 

ION. 

If I live, 
Their wish shall govern me. [Exit Cleon. 

Could I recall 
One hour, and bid thy sister think of me 
With gentle sorrow as a playmate lost, 
I should escape the guilt of having stopp'd 
The pulse of hope in the most innocent soul 
That ever passion ruffled. Do not talk 
Of me as I shall seem to thy kind thoughts, 
But harshly as thou canst, and if thou steal 
From thy rich store of popular eloquence 
Some bitter charge against the faith of kings, 
'Twill be the gentlest treason. 

Enter CASSANDER. 
CASSANDER. 

Pardon me, 
If I entreat thee to permit a few 
Of thy once cherish'd friends to bid thee joy 



180 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Of that which swells their pride. 

ION. 

They '11 madden me. — 
Dost thou not see me circled round with care ? 
Urge me no more. 

[As Cassander is going, Ion leaves Phocion and 
comes to him.] 
Come back, Cassander ! see 
How peevish greatness makes me. Keep this ring — 
It may remind thee of the pleasant hours 
That we have spent together, ere our fortunes 
Grew separate : and with thy gracious speech 
Excuse me to our friends. [Exit Cassander. 

phocion. 
'Tis time we seek 
The temple. 

ION. 

Phocion! must I to the temple? 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 1SL 



PHOCION. 

There sacrificial rites must be perform'd 
Before thou art enthroned. 

ION. 

Then I must gaze 
On things which will awake the rebel thoughts 
I had subdued — perchance may meet with her 
Whose name I dare not utter. I am ready. [Exeunt. 



182 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 



SCENE If. 



The Temple. 



ABRA. 

Be comforted, dear lady, — he must come 
To sacrifice. 

CLEMANTHE. 
Recall that churlish word, 
That stubborn " must? that bounds my living hopes, 
As with an iron circle. He must come ! 
How piteous is affection's state that cleaves 
To such a wretched prop ! I had flown to him 
Long before this, but that I fear'd my presence 
Might prove a burthen, — and he sends no word, 
No token that he thinks of me ! Art sure 
That he must come ? The hope has torture in it ; 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 183 

Yet it is all my bankrupt heart has left 
To feed upon. 

ABRA. 

I see him now with Phocion 
Pass through the inner court. 

CLEMANTHE. 

He will not come 
This way, then, to the place of sacrifice. 
I can endure no more : speed to him, Abra, 
And bid him, if he holds Clemanthe's life 
Worthy a minute's loss, to seek me here. 

ABRA. 

Dear lady — 

CLEMANTHE. 

Do not answer me, but run, 
Or I shall give yon crowd of sycophants 
To gaze upon my sorrow. [Exit Abra. 



184 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

It is hard, 
Yet I must strive to bear it, and find solace 
In that high fortune which has made him strange. 
He bends this way — but slowly — mournfully. 
O, he is ill, and I have done him wrong, 
Forgetting all that he has dared and suffer'd ! 

Enter Ion. 

ION. 

What wouldst thou with me, lady ? 

CLEMANTHE^ 

Is it so ? 
Nothing, my lord, save to implore thy pardon, 
That the departing gleams of a bright dream, 
From which I scarce had waken'd, made me bold 
To crave a word with thee ; — but all are fled — 
And I have nought to stay thee for. Thy friends 
Expect thee. 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 185 

ION. 
'Twas indeed a goodly dream ; 
But thou art right to think it was no more, 
And struggle to forget it. 

CLEMANTHE. 

To forget it ! 

no ; I cannot struggle to forget 
What, being past, will be my only future, 
All I shall live for ; do not grudge it me, 

1 will not steal it long. 

ION. 

Pray, do not speak 
In tone so mournful, for thou makest me feel 
Too sensibly the hapless wretch I am, 
That troubled the deep quiet of thy soul 
In that pure fountain which reflected heaven, 
For a brief taste of rapture. 



186 ION; A TRAGEDY. 



CLEMANTHE. 

Dost thou yet 
Esteem it rapture then ? My foolish heart, 
Be still ! Yet wherefore should a crown divide us? 
O, my dear Ion ! — let me call thee so 
This once at least— it could not in my thoughts 
Increase the distance that there was between us 
When thou, in soul beyond the wealth of kings, 
Seem'd a poor foundling. 

ION. 

It must separate us ! 
Think it no harmless bauble, but a curse 
Will freeze the current in the veins of youth, 
And from familiar touch of genial hand, 
% From household pleasures, from sweet daily tasks, 
From airy thought free wanderer of the heavens, 
For ever banish me ! 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 187 

CLEMANTHE. 

May not thy state 
Have some unnoticed shelter mid its folds 
For love to make its nest in ? 

ION. 

Not for me ; 
My pomp must be most lonesome, far removed 
From that sweet fellowship of human kind 
The slave rejoices in : my solemn robes 
Shall wrap me as a panoply of ice, 
And the attendants who may throng around me 
Shall want the flatteries which may basely warm 
The sceptral thing they circle. Dark and cold 
Stretches the path which when I wear the crown 
I needs must enter : — the great gods forbid 
That thou shouldst follow in it ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

O unkind ! 



188 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

And shall we never see each other ? 

Ion. {After a pause.] 
Yes! 

I have ask'd that dreadful question of the hills 
That look eternal ; of the flowing streams 
That lucid flow for ever ; of the stars, 
Amid whose fields of azure my raised spirit 
Hath trod in glory : all were dumb ; but now, 
While I thus gaze upon thy living face, 
I feel the love that kindles through its beauty 
Can never wholly perish : — we shall meet 
Again, Clemanthe ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

Bless thee for that name ; 
Pray, call me so again ; thy words sound strangely, 
Yet they breathe kindness, and I '11 drink them in 
Though they destroy me. Shall we meet indeed I 
Think not I would intrude upon thy cares, 
Thy councils, or thy pomps ; — to sit at distance, 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 189 

To weave, with the nice labour which preserves 
The rebel pulses even, from gay threads 
Faint records of thy deeds, and sometimes catch 
The falling music of a gracious word, 
Or the stray sunshine of a smile, will be 
Comfort enough : — do not deny me this ; 
Or if stern fate compel thee to deny, 
Kill me at once ! 

ION. 
No ; thou must live, my fair one : 
There are a thousand joyous things in life, 
Which pass unheeded in a life of joy 
As thine hath been, tilt breezy sorrow comes 
To ruffle it ; and daily duties paid 
Hardly at first, at length will bring repose 
To the sad mind that studies to perform them. 
Thou dost not mark me. 

CLEMANTHE. 

0,1 do! I do! 



190 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

ION. 

If for thy brother's and thy father's sake 
Thou art content to live, the healer Time 
Will reconcile thee to the lovely .things 
Of this delightful world, — and if another, 
A happier— no, I cannot bid thee love 
Another ! — I did think I could have said it, 
But 'tis in vain. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Thou art mine own then still ? 

ION. 

I am thine own ! thus let me clasp thee ; nearer ; 
O joy too thrilling and too short ! 

Enter Agenor. 
AGENOR. 

My lord, 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 191 

The sacrificial rites await thy presence. 

ION. 

I come. — One more embrace — the last, the last 

In this world ! Now farewell ! [Exit. 

CLEMANTHE. 

The last embrace ! 
Then he has cast me off! — no, — 'tis not so; 
Some mournful secret of his fate divides us ; 
I '11 struggle to bear that, and snatch a comfort 
From seeing him uplifted. I will look 
Upon him in his throne ; Minerva's shrine 
Will shelter me from vulgar gaze ; I '11 hasten, 
And feast my sad eyes with his greatness there ! [Exit. 



192 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 



SCENE III. 

The Great Square of the City — on one side a throne of 
state prepared, — on the other an altar, — the statues 
hung with garlands. 

Enter Ctesiphon and Cassander. 

CTESIPHON. 

Do not vex me by telling me, Cassander, 
Of his fair speech ; I prize it at its worth : 
Thou 'It see how he will act when seated firm 
Upon the throne the craven tyrant fill'd, 
Whose blood he boasts, unless some honest arm 
Should shed it first. 

CASSANDER. 
Hast thou forgot the time 
When thou thyself delighted to foretell 
His manhood's glory from his childish virtues ? 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 193 

Let me not think thee one of those fond prophets, 
Who are well pleas'd still to foretell success, 
So it remain their dream. 

CTESIPHON. 

Thou dost forget 
What has chill'd fancy and delight within me — 

[Music at a distance. 
Hark ! — servile trumpets speak his coming — watch, 
How power will change him. [They stand aside. 

The Procession. Enter Medon, Agenor, Phocion, 
Timocles, Cleon, Sages and People ; Ion last, in 
royal robes. He advances amidst shouts, and speaks. 

ION. 
I thank you for your greetings — Shout no more, 
But in deep silence raise your hearts to Heaven, 
That it may strengthen one so young and frail 
As I am, for the business of this hour. 
Must I sit here ? 

N 



194 ION ; A TRAGEDY. 

MEDON. 

Let me, thy earliest friend, 
Whom thou hast honour' d with the name of father, 
Conduct thee to thy throne ; — and thus fulfil 
My fondest vision. 

ION. 

Thou art still most kind — 

MEDON. 

Nay, do not think of me — my son ! my son ! 

Thou art deadly pale, when thou shouldst share the joy 

Thou wilt bestow on Argos. 

ION. 

Am 1 pale? 
It is a solemn office — yet thus aided, 
With great Apollo's blessing, I embrace it. 

[Sits on the throne. 
Stand forth, Agenor ! 



ION ; A TRAGEDY. 195 

AGENOR. 
I await thy will. 

ION. 

To thee I look as to the wisest friend 

Of this afflicted people ; — may I ask thee, 

Forsaking the dear quiet of thy age, 

To rule our councils ; fill the seats of justice, 

Too long abused, with men as little frail 

As men can be who know what frailty is ; 

And order my sad country. 

AGENOR. 

Pardon me — 

ION. 

Nay, I will promise thee to ask no more ; 
Thou never yet refused me what I sought 
In boyish wantonness, and shalt not grudge 
Thy strength and wisdom to me now. Remember 



196 I O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 

Thou hast all power from me, here or abroad, 
Alive or dead. 

AGENOR. 

Dead ! I am old, my Lord. 

TON. 

Death is not jealous of thy mild decay, 
And will not hasten it ; — the sight of youth 
Inspires its icy finger to be quick, 
And grasp its prey in noontide. Let me see 
The caotain of the guard. 

CRYTHES. 
Thy humblest servant 
Implores thy favour as the friend of him 
Whose rightful heir thou art. 

ION. 

I cannot thank thee, 
That wakest the memory of my father's weakness, 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 197 

But I will not forget that thou hast shared 
The light enjoyments of a noble spirit, 
And learn'd the need of luxury. I grant 
For thee and thy brave comrades, ample share 
Of such rich treasure as the palace holds, 
To grace thy passage to some distant land, 
Where, if thy valour seek an honest cause, 
I wish thee glorious victories ; but here 
We shall not need thee longer. 

CRYTHES. 

Dost intend 
To banish the firm troops before whose valour 
Barbarian millions tremble, and to leave 
Our city naked to the first assault 
Of reckless foes ? 

ION. 

No, Crythes ! — in ourselves, 
In our own honest hearts and chainless hands 
Will be our safeguard ; — every freeborn child 



198 1 O N ; A T R A G E D Y. 

Shall be prepared to guard his country's peace 
By well-nerved arm, nor ask for her defence 
One selfish passion, or one venal sword. 
I would not grieve thee ; — but thy valiant troop, 
For I esteem them valiant—must no more 
With luxury which suits a desperate camp 
Infect us. See that this be done, Agenor, 
Ere night. 

CRYTHES. 

My Lord— 

ION. 

No more — my word is pass'd. 
Medon, there is no office I can add 
To those thou hast grown old in ; thou wilt guard 
The shrine of Phoebus, and within thy home — 
Thy most delightful home — befriend the stranger 
As thou didst me ; — there thou wilt sometimes think 
On thy spoil'd inmate. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 199 

MEDON. 

Think of thee, my Lord I 
We shall revere thee in thy glorious reign — 

ION. 

No more of that. Argives ! there is a boon 
I fain would crave of you ; — when I am dust, 
Be gentle to the memory of my father, 
For ye who saw him in his full blown pride 
Knew little of the inward man, nor guess'd 
The wrongs which frenzied him ; yet not again 
Let the great interests of the state depend 
Upon the thousand chances that may sway 
A piece of human frailty ; swear to me 
That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves 
The means of sovereignty : — our narrow space, 

So beautiful, so bounded, so compact, 

Needs not the magic of a single name 

Which wider regions may require to draw 

Their interests into one ; but, circled in 



200 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

Like a bless'd family by simple laws, 

May tenderly be govern'd ; all degrees 

Blent into one harmonious frame may glow 

A living form of beauty, free to smile 

In generous peace, or flash with courage bright, 

If tyranny should threaten. Swear to me 

That ye will do this ! 

MEDON. 

Wherefore ask this now ? — 
Thou shalt live long ; — thy face, that late so pale 
AppalPd me, now is flush'd with radiant joy, 
And speaks a reign of glory. 

ION. 

Looks, alas! 
May prove deceitful. Promise* if I leave 
No issue, that the sovereign power shall live 
In the affections of the people's soul, 
And in our sages' wisdom. 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 201 

medon and others. 
We will swear it ! 

ION. 

Hear and record the oath, immortal powers! 

Now give me leave a moment to approach 

That altar unattended. [He goes to the altar. 

Gracious gods ! 
In whose mild service my glad youth was spent, 
Look on me now ; — and if there is a Power, 
As at this solemn time I feel there is, 
Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes 
The spirit of the beautiful that lives 
In earth and heaven ; — to ye I offer up 
This conscious being, full of life and love 
For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow 
End all her sorrows ! 
[Stabs himself, andfalls. Ctksiphon rushes to catch him.] 

Ctesiphon, thou art 
Avenged, and wilt forgive me. 



202 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

CTESIPHON. 

Thou hast pluck'd 
The poor disguise of hatred from my soul, 
And made me feel how low and base a thing 
Is vengeance. Could I die to save thee ! 

Clem an the rushes forward. 

CLEMANTHE. 

Hold! 
Let me support him — stand away — indeed 
I have best right, although ye know it not, 
To cling to him in death. 

ION. 

This is a joy 
I did not hope for — this is sweet indeed. — 
J3end thine eyes on me ! 

CLEMANTHE. 

And for this it was 



ION; A TRAGEDY. 203 

Thou wouldst have weaned me from thee ! Couldst thou 

think 
I would be so divorced ? 

ION. 

Thou art right, Clemanthe,— 
It was a shallow and an idle thought ; 
'Tis past ; we have no show of coldness now, 
No vain disguise, my girl. Yet thou wilt think 
On that which, in my feigning, I said truly — 
Wilt thou not, sweet one ? 

CLEMANTHE. 

I will treasure all. 
Enter Irus. 

IRUS. 

I bring you glorious tidings — Ha ! no joy 
Can enter here. 



204 ION; A TRAGEDY. 

ION. 
Yes — is it as I hope ? 

IRUS. 

The pestilence abates. 

Ion. [Springs to his feet.] 
Do ye not hear ? 
Why shout ye not ? — ye are strong — think not of me ; 
Hearken ! the curse my ancestry had spread 
O'er Argos is dispell'd ! — Agenor, give 
This gentle youth his freedom, who hath brought 
Sweet tidings that I shall not die in vain — 
And Medon ! cherish him as thou hast one 
Who dying blesses thee; — my own Clemanthe! 
Let this console thee — Argos lives again — 
The offering is accepted — all is well ! [Dies. 

THE END. 

P 669 

PRINTED BY A. J. VALPY, RED HON COURT. FLEET STREET. 






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